Hero Trip
by Jim Wicked
Summary: Spike is a disturbed serial killer, Buffy the psychiatrist who handled his case. Now he's escaped the institution in search of the good doctor, among other things.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I own nothing. How sad. I could put Spike to good use.

Hero Trip: Prologue

Buffy Summers pushed the tape recorder toward the man that sat across from her, who stared blankly at the device, emotionless as he had appeared from the moment she'd met him. From the image he was projecting―goth decked in all black clothing, fingernails painted the same color, heavy boots, platinum blonde hair and a stone expression―she wondered if she would be able to crack him. He oozed arrogance, despite the lack of feeling displayed by his visage, and though technically the case was strong enough to withstand a tight-lipped perp, she wanted an explanation. Pressing the button to begin the reel, Buffy spoke firmly and clearly,

"Please state your name for the record,"

The man continued his self-induced silence, only crossing his arms about a well defined chest, and pinning her with an icy stare from cobalt eyes. In the quiet she met his gaze, and for a moment separated the man from the crimes he'd been accused of. He didn't seem at all as unhinged as his indiscretions would imply, but from her extensive psychiatric training, and basic common sense, she knew... appearances could be immensely deceiving.

"Your name please, sir," she reiterated with a bit more force to grab his attention. He seemed unaffected, for the most part, simply raising a dark, scarred eyebrow to acknowledge her. Buffy was growing slightly agitated at his lack of response, but before she could restate, he caught her off guard,

"What's yours?" He asked, the rumble of his deep voice, complete with rich British accent, wound its way around the interrogation room. "Since we're swapping pleasantries an' all."

Buffy was taken aback by his tone, the sharp disdain and seduction coating the words. She'd never known someone to be both sultry and contemptuous in one statement. But then, from what she knew of him, this man held many a contradiction within his psyche. In any other situation, she would retort with her own quip or well-put barb, but...

"It's Dr. Summers. Elizabeth." she replied, not breaking contact with his deep ceruleans, trying to appear confident, "but my friends call me Buffy."

"Well, I don't see as how we could be friends, so...Elizabeth it is."

Not skipping a beat, Buffy moved on with her questioning. "And what do _your _friends call you, Mr. ..." She then made a show of flipping through his file, as if his name, even he, was not important enough to remember. No sense in stoking an already oversized ego. "Beverley." she finished, regarding him as she closed the manila folder that held his information as gathered by the LAPD. Brow furrowing slightly, she added, "Or is it William the Bloody? The Big Bad? Spike? Vampire? I've heard them all."

"Prefer Spike. An' I have no friends," he stated fluidly before placing a fingertip to his temple. "Except for the ones in 'ere. And they don't _call_ me anything."

Buffy gave a small smile at the slip of information he'd provided her with. "That's right...Spike..." she said, testing the name out, "you were diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia at 21." looking to him, she gauged his reaction.

He frowned disapprovingly, and she wondered if he'd shut her out once more. But, surprisingly, he spoke, "I don't take much stock in things like that. Neither should you, pet."

"When did you stop taking your medication?" she asked, ignoring both his rebuttal as well as the endearment.

"Medication?" He scoffed, dismissing the idea entirely, "The things they can't see...they call it madness. But it's fraud. The lot of it. The diagnosis, the pills, the _shrinks_," he spat this word with such a level of revulsion, Buffy had to push farther away from table, putting more distance between herself and his elevating anger. "Tie me down, drug me up, just to stop me telling the truth. I won't lie for them!"

"What is the truth?"

"There is so much _you_ can't feel...lurking about. So much."

"You feel it?" she ventured, then prompted, "Do you?"

"I walk in worlds you can't begin to imagine," He whispered, deceptively soft. Buffy, though, could hear the menace in his words. A look at his eyes showed them to be glossy, disoriented. "I do what I must." Was his declaration, tone suddenly losing all indication of feeling. No remorse for whatever he was hiding.

"What did you do?" She inquired carefully, knowing a false step would halt the interview. She could tell Spike did not want to continue, but didn't think he feared conviction, jail. He'd seemed nonchalant when charged and brought in. No, not stopping for punishment, but for whatever voice was governing him, whatever hallucination...

He'd already said too much.

"Part of me wanted to save them. The other...the other needed to destroy."

"Murder. You murdered six innocent people, William." she established, using his given name for emphasis.

Her words caused an immediate alteration.

He smirked at her, and Buffy barely contained a gasp at the appearance of his wicked smile. Pearl-white teeth, pointed and sharp. His canines elongated, not drastically, but enough to be noticed as hazardous.

As fangs.

Vampire...

She shouldn't have been surprised. After all, it was the _unusual_ markings on each victim that had condemned him. Still, she hadn't been prepared. Connecting his nicknames to his crimes, and now his appearance...

"Shame on you, luv."

She started, assuming he'd caught her staring, but he continued, sounding close to entertained.

"All the knowledge you have of human behavior. Shouldn't call even one of 'em _innocent._ But, yeah. It was six I snuffed."

"You _tortured and ravaged_ every one of them. Each more _innocent_ than you." she retorted forcefully, bothered by his flippancy. And he, bothered by her response, rose quickly from the table, fists clenched, chair flying back to clatter against a wall. Buffy stood as well, apprehensive and regretting her demand of the detectives to leave them alone, and him unshackled. Swallowing hard, she attempted to speak while keeping her voice from conveying anxiety at her vulnerable position: on the angry side of an unpredictable man.

"Why?"

His stance relaxed here, and she let out the breath she hadn't been aware of holding.

"Death is my art." was all he offered her. Not the answer she was after.

"No. Why _six_?"

Spike leant onto the table before him. Supporting his weight with both hands on metal, he bowed his head and remained quiet for an extended period. The psych in Buffy chastised her emotions. She hadn't gone about this the right way. Startled by the realization of his potential danger, she'd rushed the question. For the extent of this investigation, she'd wanted to get inside the mind of the killer, find why he ended lives the way he did. Now she had him..._moments_ away, and she may have fucked up royally.

"6,6,6," once again his words derailed her musings.

He lifted his gaze as she did her own.

The expression on his countenance made Buffy take a step back. Not fury, not mirth, not even the coldness of earlier; none of the few tendencies he'd exhibited in this cell were present.

His face, his eyes, his mouth just―content. Complacent. Serene. She hadn't expected that. Not from a supposedly violent man. Bravado, definitely. Stoicism, maybe. But, as he continued, he displayed a tone of calm detachment, an attitude of peaceful indifference, as if it wasn't _he_ being exposed.

"6,6,6," he repeated. " 'S the number for Hell. That right doctor?" he asked, the sound of his voice wafting toward her, light and mesmerizing. She nodded dumbly as she watched him round the table and advance upon her. Fixed on him, his face, his eyes, his mouth, only by instinct did she back away. Give a glance for the guards that were nowhere to protect her. She was trapped. With him. And he was pushing forward.

"For evil: 6,6,6. But 'm not evil. What I've done isn't sin."

"No?" she asked warily, hitting the wall behind her. Cornered as he crept closer. His walk slow, predatory...seductive. Once more. She was baffled. But that was soon overtaken..._she_ was soon overtaken.

"No." He confirmed, stopping mere inches from her. He raised a hand to her face. Fingers gripping her jaw and pushing her head to one side, he bared her neck.

"You see, _Elizabeth_," He went on, his breath coasting along her flesh, her name rolling languidly from his tongue, raising goose bumps in spite of her now unavoidable fear. "The world is full of martyrs." A pause. And then, "Just begging to die for a cause,"

Leaning close, he stroked her hair, his gentle motions incongruous to the harsh manner he'd previously exerted. At her ear, lips brushing her skin, he murmured,

"_My. Cause."_

before burying his fangs in her throat.

She felt the blood leave her, felt herself dying platelet by platelet. But, most of all, she felt _him_. Deep and Deadly she felt him, until they pulled him off.

A guard wrenched Spike from her, kneeing him in the back. He fell, and Buffy's blurred vision focused upon her attacker.

He watched her bewilderment, her inability to speak. He chuckled. Spit up blood. She knew it was hers―didn't care. All she saw was that they were taking him from her. Hauling him to his feet, Spike struggling all the while. They fought him to stand. They fought his hands behind his back. They fought, and it felt like chaos.

But he looked at her. For the third time that day. Really _looked_. So emotionless. So placid. And she was stilled.

"You're going to prison," she heard a guard bark. Spike smiled slow, flashing teeth covered red.

"No," he shot back, eyes locked on Buffy. Talking only to her. "I'm going to Hell."

And as they dragged him off, and Buffy put a hand over the wound he had created, trying to stifle the blood, the betrayal in her body at the feel of that killer so close, she heard him,

"A pity, really. I've always felt so Christ-like."


	2. Chapter 1

_He searches  
Hunter of the shadows is rising  
Immortal  
In madness you dwell_

_-Metallica 'The Thing That Should Not Be'_

**Four Years and Eight Months Later**

Chapter 1:

Her heels clicking frustrated staccatos against pavement were the only sounds to fracture the silence of the early Los Angeles morning. Strange, and yet not so, considering the structure Buffy neared as she crossed the parking lot.

_Sunnydale Sanitarium _

She cringed inwardly at the name, a sharp contrast to what was contained within the walls of this infirmary: hundreds of unstable individuals who were _anything_ but 'sunny'.

Giving a glance to her watch, Buffy cursed under her breath and quickened her pace. She reached the double-door entrance to the facility, and bypassing the reception area, headed for the elevator and fifth floor.

The doctor had been more than a little perturbed, to say the least, when a message on her cell phone had interrupted the routine drive to her office. Some 'Mr. Giles', director of the fine establishment she now occupied, and an apparent colleague, had insisted she see him right away. Urgent Matter. Concerning Her. And reluctantly, she had come. Out of curiosity, if nothing else. But she wasn't pleased by the inconvenience. Not remotely.

Exhaling heavily, she moved from the lift and down the hall in the direction of this _colleague's_ office, as given on her voice mail. Halting for a moment outside of the correct room, she reined in her agitation before opening the door, unannounced, and stepping inside.

If he minded her abruptness, he didn't show it.

As soon as she entered, Buffy was greeted by a middle-aged Englishman, dressed from head-to-foot in tweed and smiling nervously.

"Rupert Giles?" Buffy inquired, going further into the room and closing the door behind her.

"Dr. Summers," he replied as he moved to take her hand in his. She didn't correct him on the name: it seemed inconsequential, and she didn't have time for small talk.

She gripped his hand firmly and allowed him to lead her to a seat in front of his desk. It was then that she noticed the rather bulky young man with a badge clipped to his belt standing beside the entranceway.

"And you are?" she asked, giving the man a questioning look.

"Oh!" Giles exclaimed with a gesture, "This is detective Riley Finn. Do you mind if he sits in on the conversation?"

Buffy shook her head, not wanting to complicate matters. Anything to speed this up. She was late. "No. No. It's fine. If you could just tell me what this is all about..."

"Yes, to the point then," agreed the seemingly stuffy man. A pause followed before, "Actually Doctor, I contacted you because...I...we here at Sunnydale...we require your help."

Buffy immediately stiffened, looking between the two other occupants of the room. Detective Finn stepped closer to where she and Giles sat, and the reason for her visit began to make sense.

"Is this police business?" she asked, keeping her voice devoid of inflection.

"Well...well, yes it is," Giles answered, avoiding her suddenly brutal glare.

The woman placed her hands upon the desk, preparing to rise, "Then my answer, as you should expect, is no." The older man looked as if he were about to protest, but she cut him off, "Mr. Giles, if you knew enough of my professional history to contact me, you should know that I am very much _retired_ from forensic psychiatry. I found it draining. As of eight months ago, I quit. I run a private practice now...and in point of fact, this impromptu meeting with you has caused me to cancel my first appointment of the day. So, if _you_ don't mind, I'll be going..." She stood from her chair and made as if to leave, but was stopped by the declaration of,

"It involves William Beverley."

Turning slowly, she faced Rupert, stunned silent, and dumbly obeyed his sign for her to sit back down. He did the same, and observing her from across the table, spoke.

"You were the department's psychiatrist at the time of William's arrest, were you not?"

Buffy could find no words. So she just nodded.

"And instead of allowing the prison psych to take over, you treated him while he was incarcerated?"

Another nod.

"Until you removed yourself? Is _that _correct?"

A nod. And unconsciously, as she was prone to do when _his_ name was mentioned, her hand traveled to her neck, rubbing the scar he'd left her with.

"Ms. Summers, I...are you alright?"

Buffy gave herself an inward shake, and forcing herself to leave off the habit she had developed, assured, "Yes―fine―go on."

"Right," Giles began, sounding convinced, though the air he exuded was one of uncertainty, "I'm not sure if you're aware, but about two months subsequent to your departure, William Beverley was transferred from penitentiary to Sunnydale."

"W-why?" Buffy managed through the lump forming in her throat.

"Well, aside from the obvious reasons, he became increasingly erratic after stopping treatment with _you_."

"Really?" This time it was she avoiding the other's gaze.

"Uncontrollably so. His behavior was enough to prove a liability to the prison. Violent, irrational..."

"Enough to frighten both hardened criminals as well as the wardens," Finn interjected, wishing this 'Giles' would get to the point. Despite the loathsome expression shot his way by the same man, he continued, "They attempted to keep him in isolation for a time, but that proved ineffectual...as did Sunnydale."

"What are you saying?" Buffy inquired, nerves getting the best of her, fearing the direction the conversation was going.

"He was relocated here," Giles answered, retaking control of the account, "His rehabilitation seemed to prove fruitful, for a time. Then yesterday afternoon, during his yard time, Mr. Beverley escaped."

Again she was at a loss, the only thing she could manage being a weak, "How?"

"We're not exactly sure," Finn replied, embarrassed at his inability to recapture the fugitive after what was, in his opinion, a ridiculous amount of time, "By all appearances, he seemed to have just...walked out."

Buffy should have been incredulous, furious, or otherwise driven to distraction, and yet could bring herself to do nothing but laugh, "Just _walked out_! You allowed a gravely dangerous, and no doubt, gravely _pissed off_ serial killer to just...walk out! What the hell is that supposed to mean! It's called security! Were you all asleep!" she spoke through her raucous amusement.

Neither of the men could come up with a justification for what had transpired, and even if they could have at another time, they both were too troubled by the rather odd reaction the usually composed M.D. was exhibiting toward the news.

Giles silently motioned for the detective to move on with the conference, and Finn nodded, confusion etching his features. Removing the object he'd concealed in his coat pocket, Riley set it upon the desktop and waited for Summers to acknowledge him.

Buffy choked on her mirth when she saw the police-issue gun lying between herself and the two men. Swallowing hard, she whispered,

"What's that for?"

"You," Finn confirmed her suspicion, "I've been authorized to give you this. For protection."

All that hilarity must've dulled her cognitive skills, as Buffy could not possibly comprehend what _she _would need protecting from. "Excuse me?"

"We have reason to believe that William's main concern is you, Doctor."

Buffy glanced from the homicide detective to the head of Sunnydale Sanitarium, both of whom donned similar looks of pity. This wasn't funny.

Numb for the moment, she took the weapon offered her, sliding it into her purse. Then, turning her back, she strode toward the exit door.

"Dr. Summers."

Nothing.

"Dr. Summers."

No response.

"Elizabeth!" Giles called forcefully after her.

Stopping her cold.

Elizabeth.

Elizabeth.

_No one _called her _Elizabeth._

_No one except... _

_William._

She pivoted on her heel, eyes elevated in a look of defiance: grim determination to believe what couldn't be true.

"Rupert," she gritted out, " I'll take precautions. For _protection, _as you insist. But I can't help you. Because frankly, I don't see what this has to do with me."

With that, and a flick of her golden locks, the petite woman strode from the room.

Rupert Giles scrubbed his face with one hand before turning in his chair toward detective Finn, whose thoughts seemed to be of the same variety as his own.

Silly girl. This has _everything _to do with you.

* * *

Spike peered at the crumpled paper he'd ripped from the telephone book. She had been so easy to find. A doctor with such a horrid skeleton in her closet should not keep herself listed. Shoving the leaf back into the pocket of his leather duster, Spike thought over her name.

_Dr. Elizabeth Summers-Daly._

Mrs. Liam Daly.

When _had_ the bird gotten married?

He decided it didn't matter. The Husband wasn't why he was here. Though, it was who he was met with when he raised a fist to knock on the door.

"Can I help you?" Liam asked, running a hand through short brunette hair and frowning in Spike's direction.

The Bloody in him immediately sized up the newcomer. Taller and broader, he posed a threat, though Spike got the distinct impression he could and would rip Mr. Daly's throat out in a heartbeat. But he had a purpose.

__

Elizabeth.

"Is the lady of the house in?" Spike asked in his most put-on polite-and-proper tone.

"She's at work. Is there something _I_ can do for you?"

"You could tell me where she works?" His smile was strained, almost non-existent. Lips hiding his fangs.

"No..." Liam drawled, and Spike resisted the urge to wrap his hands around the other man's throat. That just wouldn't do. Then again, neither would _this_ poofter testing his extremely thin patience. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Traveling evangelist."

_Close enough._

Liam narrowed his eyes, "You don't look like a very...religious man."

Glancing down at himself, he shrugged. _When you're right_...

"I get that a lot."

"What do you need with my wife?"

_Your Wife. _Possessive little bastard. As if Elizabeth could be owned. By _you_, at any rate...

The Husband didn't know...she'd already been claimed.

"Have you accepted the Truth?"

"I really don't want to hear it,"

Spike blew out a breath. "People never do."

Before Liam could respond, he was knocked backward with the force of the punch Spike threw.

Glowering at the man he'd floored―who was now holding his profusely bleeding nose―Spike stepped over the threshold and into the Daly residence.

He still had a purpose. But he could have a little fun, too.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Security really is quite laughable these days.

This, at least, is what Spike thought as he strode up to the secretary employed by one Elizabeth Summers. Flipping through a magazine and noisily cracking her gum, the busty blonde hardly registered his arrival.

_Bloody ridiculous._

Just as he had sauntered out of the asylum, so had he traveled across town, a convict in broad daylight, and sauntered in here. Completely undetected. How amusing. The citizens of Los Angeles were either deeply oblivious or deeply stupid. Spike would stake his life on the latter.

Better yet, he'd stake someone else's.

The receptionist continued her perusal of the booklet in her hands, not yet alerted to his presence. Of course, Spike _considered _going straight into Doctor...Daly's...office without making himself known, the element of surprise and all that rot. But he enjoyed a challenge.

"Excuse me, sweetheart."

Harmony Kendall's attention was ripped away from her monthly issue of "Cosmo" at the word 'sweetheart', spoken by the man standing not two feet away from her.

The _gorgeous_ man.

Beaming at him in the most effective of her vapid-flirtatious smiles, she recited the line she'd been trained to deliver,

"Do you have an appointment?"

"You could say that," he replied with a raise of his eyebrow, an eyebrow which, Harmony noticed with interest, was split by a scorpion-shaped scar.

"Name, please?" She asked, batting her eyelashes coquettishly, a hard task to accomplish when simultaneously checking the sign-in sheet. But she managed, all while leaning forward in the most subtle of ways to give the attractive Brit a view of her perfectly positioned cleavage.

She nearly pouted when the corners of his mouth turned down in what she thought to be a look of disinterest, though her mood brightened significantly as he motioned for her to move closer, giving the semblance of confidentiality.

"Listen...Harmony," he began, voice hushed and secretive, and she was delighted at the silken way he spoke her name, the slow travel of striking blue eyes along her form before coming to rest upon her nametag. "You ever meet Liam Daly?"

"Buffy's husband?" Harmony asked and waited for his nod of confirmation, "No."

"Well then, allow me to introduce myself," he replied with a smirk, extending a hand.

She took it, both relieved as well as disappointed. He wasn't immune to her charm, just...taken. _At least he isn't here for a session_, Harmony mused, consoling herself at the loss. _At least he isn't crazy..._

"You're hurt," she observed through her attempted self-assurance, turning his hand in hers to get a better view of the abraded knuckles.

For a moment his eyes flashed and darkened in unmistakable anger. Then, pulling from her grasp, he stuffed the offending appendage into his pocket and plastered on a smile, careful to hide his canines.

"'S nothing, pet. Just, I need to see the wife. She here?"

"No," Harmony told him, a little unconvinced by his supposedly pleasant demeanor. But she quickly pushed the warning aside. He'd called her _pet_... "She had an unexpected meeting this morning, and had to cancel with a client."

The chit returned his smile then, obviously pleased with her ability to recall important information.

"Harm, do me a favor, alright?

She nodded vigorously, ditzy little bint that she was.

"When Eliz―_Buffy_," Spike started, forcing himself to use the hated moniker, "When _Buffy _arrives, would you mind not telling her I'm here? Like to surprise my favorite girl."

Harmony made a strange cooing noise, her grin broadening, "You're sweet."

"That I am. So, you just keep those pretty lips of yours sealed, yeah?"

A wink was her response, and Spike, confident that she'd comply, turned toward the psychiatrist's office, grimacing at the sugary attitude he'd had to adopt for Harmony's benefit. Thinking over his last words, he muttered under his breath,

"Keep 'em sealed, or I'll rip 'em off."

* * *

Spike didn't bother turning on the light. In truth, he preferred darkness. All types of unspeakable things happened only in the midst of shadow.

He was one of those things.

Bruised hand still buried in his pocket, he toyed with the folding dagger resting upon the coat's lining. Running his fingers along the engraving on the handle, he pondered the probability of having to use the tool. When Elizabeth arrived, when she saw him, heard the new evils he'd unearthed, Spike wondered if she'd go quietly. He seriously doubted it.

Shaking off the thought, he pulled the few other, and less ambiguous, sundries from his duster. He placed a cigarette between his teeth, and lighting it, inhaled gratefully, allowing nicotine to soothe his agitation. The large flame emitted from his Zippo cast the room in an eerie glow, and somehow, this made Spike all the more relaxed. Keeping the lighter ignited, he moved through the spacious area, peering at his surroundings.

He was unsurprised by what he saw. The walls were painted an unobtrusive off-white, so as not to rile any hazardous emotions that may be lying dormant within the psychotic mind. Scoffing at the technique, Spike maneuvered around an expansive couch and a few lamps, before stepping behind what had to be Elizabeth's desk. Seating himself in her leather chair, he took a last pull on his fag before grinding it out on the mahogany tabletop, and lighting another.

Chain smoking seemed to be the only occupation able to provide Spike with enough restraint to wait out her advent. Watching the glowing ember of his cigarette's tip, he followed the tendrils of smoke it produced all about, pivoting in his chair as he did so. And, though the room had appeared relatively uninteresting, a cabinet behind him contained an assortment that caught Spike's eye.

A rather baffling amount of cassettes were stacked behind twin glass doors of the cupboard mounted upon the wall. However, despite the quantity, it was those at the forefront of the collection that held his attention. A series of tapes labeled 'William Beverley', which Spike knew to contain the sessions he had undergone during his confinement.

Reaching upward, he found the breakfront unlocked, and removed the recordings, placing them atop the table. Absently, he went to close the doors, when again his vision was snagged by yet another cartridge. This one marked simply: Spike.

Forgetting the others, he focused solely on the cassette graced with his handle. Pondering the reason behind the change in reference, Spike settled himself back into his previous seat. After a moment of tapping his black-coated fingernails upon the casing, he looked around for the recorder Elizabeth had always brought along to meetings with him.

No such appliance in sight, he began to check the drawers of her desk, these too being unlocked. Within the last compartment, Spike found what he'd been searching for, and inwardly reprimanding the doctor for her carelessness, slipped tape into device and pressed _Play_.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

Spike felt the burden of time hanging low over him as he listened to pure static. Then, breaking through waves of nothingness came _her_ voice, sounding strangled, pained, and foreign after all these months. Leaning backward in his chair, he took a long drag on the most recent of his cigarettes and let her words surround him...

* * *

_"His name is William Beverley. They call him William the Bloody. And I know him as Spike. And I know...I've never allowed another patient to affect me in this way. Frankly, I've never allowed another _person_ to affect me in this way. But, Spike is...baffling. He fascinates me, has from the very beginning. _

_So much so that I forget what he is at times. A killer. And a psychotic. _

_I forget what he believes he is..._

_I've forgotten my training, my protocol_, _my professionalism. So I've made a decision._

_I have to walk away._

_But, I wanted to first put all of this on record. Because his enigma has become personal. And I want to remember everything..._

_When I say Spike is fascinating, it's not an exaggeration. Parts of him are so wrapped in contradiction, I wonder if he ever has a moment's peace. On the one hand, he is textbook. He suffers from hallucinations, the hearing of voices, detachment from reality. Paranoia coming from delusions of grandeur and persecution. But the similarities end there..._

_I've treated subjects with his disorder who honestly believe God speaks to them; they follow orders that supposedly come from the Divine. But Spike...his grandeur, his persecution, stems from his belief that he _is_, in fact, the Divine..._

_Within his own fractured world, Spike is God, is Jesus, he is the Chosen One. This, although sounding like madness to the rest of us, is perfectly reasonable to Spike. We call him crazy, all he hears is that he is the only sane one left. He can handle being the saint._

_What he cannot handle is being the sinner..._

_That is to say, the complexity of Spike's condition is that, not only is he the holiest of beings, but he is the most unclean as well. From what I've gathered, his soul is divided in half. One being Christ re-incarnate. The other...a demon._

_The halves are at constant war with one another. Leaving Spike almost completely unable to differentiate between the two, and so, at the mercy of each. Which, in a disturbing way, explains his crimes..._

_William began killing at age 23, two years after being diagnosed. Of course, he had refused treatment, medication, and the like. Consequently, his affliction, left unchecked, was bound to overtake him..._

_Spike's first victim...his wife, Cecily Adams. Out of six, hers is the only murder with any real connection, or relationship, to him. I've tried to ask him about her. But she is also the only murder of six he won't speak of. In four years, he's only revealed that Cecily 'betrayed him'. Whatever his meaning, a trauma, the high stress of such a betrayal, could very well have triggered and worsened Spike's already volatile mental state..._

_He attacked her. Using four rather large knives from a collection he was said to have been keeping, Spike...well...he crucified her. Nailed her to the wall of their New York apartment. Right above the bed. So begins the pattern. Spike's M.O._

_The crucifixion, a perfect example of his confusion._

_He kills in the way he believes he was killed._

_But, murder, a sin, a bloodlust_―_purely demonic._

_He can resist neither side, so he allows them both._

_The crucifixion, and the name 'Spike' was borne._

_And William the Bloody?_

_After Cecily, it seems Spike truly did develop a bloodlust. _

_Every victim after his wife, _every one, _he drained of all blood...and his teeth matched every mark._

_Including Mine..._

_His teeth, one of the many things I cannot fully explain about Spike. Fangs are inhuman, but his dental records prove...he grew into them._

_And that intrigues me._

_And scares the living Hell out of me._

_Because, if Spike's been living with the visage of a demon for years, as if born to be the scourge he has become..._

_If he's been living this way...it lends truth to his reality._

_His identity._

_And if he's not lying..._

_Shit._

_This is why I've made my decision._

_I can't stay._

_I can't keep treating him._

_I_ _can't _handle_ this..._

_I'm starting to question my own sanity..._

_

* * *

_

Breezing into the lobby, Buffy approached her receptionist, who was now engaged in a lively conversation on the phone. She waved a hand in front of Harmony, who had, rather suspiciously, halted her speech a moment before her employer moved within range.

Though, Buffy swore she'd heard the words 'Cheekbones to die for'.

Checking her watch for the umpteenth time that morning, she waited for Harmony to end the call before addressing her.

"Harmony."

"Morning, Boss!" Was the overly chipper response she received as her secretary placed the phone back onto its cradle.

Choosing to ignore the girl's use of business hours for recreational calls, Buffy asked curtly, "Has my next appointment signed in yet?"

"Um...no," Harmony answered with a giggle, "Should be another half-hour at least,"

Furrowing her brow at the strange behavior, quizzical even for Harmony, she began the walk toward her office, a pounding headache forming behind each temple.

"I'll hold your calls."

Her hand reaching for the doorknob, Buffy puzzled at the statement, and turning slightly so as not to aggravate the pain lancing her skull, she inquired, "Why would you need to―"

There. That sound. Behind the wood and veneer separating herself from her workplace, Buffy was met with her own voice.

_I'm starting to question my own sanity..._

Confusion once more enveloping her, she took a tentative pace across the threshold, and finding the switch in darkness, flooded the room with light.

Seeing who appeared before her at the sudden illumination, Buffy shielded her heart with a palm.

And she really couldn't stop herself from delivering the excited utterance that sprang to her lips,

"Jesus Christ!"


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

The irony of that particular curse was downright agonizing.

Buffy opened her mouth, summoning the exclamation backward.

She closed her eyes, in true toddler fashion, wishing he would no longer be there if she did not look at him: boots propped up on her desktop, slim frame draped in black and lounging in her chair, hands fiddling with a silver lighter as he listened intently to the silence that followed the end of the recording she'd made. She wished for it, but he did not disappear.

He laughed.

"Impeccable timing, luv," Spike chuckled harshly, breaching her denial, forcing her to acknowledge him. She watched his expression turn granite, "Though you should learn to watch your mouth."

The Lord's name in Vain...

Buffy folded her arms about the chest, holding herself together. The shock of his resurface had her shaking; already he was angry with her.

"Sorry," she mumbled, feeling miniscule beneath the sudden scrutiny of his gaze, "Just...surprised, is all."

"I'm not," he told her, sitting upright and gesturing toward the machine in front of him, "and I've been hearing some unusual things of late."

Buffy gathered what remained of her composure, "Me too," she stated with a slight raise of the chin.

She earned a smirk from the man opposite her at the declaration, "Yeah, you must've. I assume the _unexpected meeting _you had this morning was about me?"

At what had to be the perplexed look she wore, Spike clarified, "Fetching assistant, that Harmony. Easily charmed, anyway. I've half a mind to give her a go. What do you think?"

"You're disgusting, Spike"

He merely widened his leer.

"How did you find me?"

"Paid a visit to your home... met The Husband."

"What?" Buffy's dubious response sounded hollow to her own ears.

"I didn't like him," he continued as he vacated his seat and moved from behind the desk, showing her the scarlet knuckles of an injured hand, "Bruised like a _peach_, Liam did."

Standing paralyzed for a moment, she took in his meaning...and rushed for the door.

_Angel..._

Spike reached her first.

Grabbing her around the waist, he picked Elizabeth clear off her feet and displaced her from their intended path.

Clucking his tongue, Spike chastised her attempts to dislodge his hold upon her.

"Now, now, Doctor. You'll see him soon enough. Stay with me a while longer."

Not waiting for a response, but taking her lack of struggling within his arms as a sign of resignation, he relocated the both of them to her desk. Settling her into the chair, Spike hopped onto the table, and pulled her closer to him. He took a moment to study her appearance, and, despite the obvious fear permeating the petite woman...

"You look good," he commented, searching his pockets for yet another smoke. Finding the pack, he offered it to her, and at her shake of the head, extracted a cigarette for himself, "You gonna return the compliment?"

Peering up at the man now looming over her, Buffy―with a certain amount of guilt―took in his features. He seemed...unchanged. Every bit as attractive as he had been the day she left him, or the day they met.

In a quiet second, their eyes collided, and she hurriedly bowed her head, cheeks reddening. As always, his stare was unnerving, as if he'd gained access to her thoughts. After listening to that tape, Buffy worried that he had.

Attention steady on her, he tracked Elizabeth's line of vision, noticing the way she lingered upon the casettes laid out at her fingertips. Reaching over, Spike pushed the eject button on the recorder, and held up the object of interest.

"So, it comes out at last. Why you threw in the proverbial towel."

Her face remained hidden from him, silent affirmation.

"I have to say I was disappointed," he elaborated, voice menacingly low as he placed the cartridge back on the desk and slid it under her lowered gaze. "Cowards, you lot are. Humans, I mean. Most of you, you'll do anything to protect a lie. Avoid even an instant's honesty for all you're worth. Just to keep trudging around in your plastic version of existence. Do you know the one time a person will accept undiluted truth?"

Still, she refused to look at him, so he bent down and forced her chin upward, smiling deceptively,

"When they die."

She started at this, flinching against his fingertips.

His smile turned to a sneer.

"Hey, no worries. It hasn't come to that. I need you to realize, however, that your past behavior is now inexcusable. _Walking away? _Bullshit. You were running scared, and I won't allow it again." He released his grip on her, blowing smoke in her direction as he regarded the woman curiously, " 'S funny...out of all these poor blokes and blighters mucking up the works, I expected more from _you_, Elizabeth."

Experimentally pressing her fingers along the area he'd had in a vice, Buffy managed an inquiry, her voice no longer muffled by the voluminous golden locks that had veiled her, "What _do _you expect from me?"

"At the moment? Information." Spike replied, snuffing his fag.

"I don't know anything," was her defiant rejoinder.

"You know enough. As much as the cops, I'd wager."

"What the hell are you..."

"On about?" He finished for her, "It works like this, pet. A little in the way of incarceration. I've got you trapped, and your freedom, in more ways than one, rests in me. So, what say you cooperate, an' I'll think of giving a reduced sentence. Good behavior, eh?"

Her glare was no less than murderous, but she nodded all the same.

"Right then. I'm a bit busy, got this pesky mission that needs seein' to. And with the men in blue on my tail, you can understand my need to keep track of my enemies. Your meeting this morning, who was it with?"

Buffy swallowed hard, not requiring him to warn that a lie would be dangerous, if not deadly. "Rupert Giles, director of the sanitarium, and a homicide detective, Riley Finn," she stated in one breath, hoping Spike would be satisfied with the answer.

"Homicide? I haven't killed anyone."

Buffy couldn't help the disbelieving snort she delivered. This impulsiveness was going to get her killed.

Instead of anger, Spike found humor in the slip. "Well, yeah, I have. But, not for a few blessed months." A pause, and then, "What'd they tell you?"

"Not much. You'd escaped, I'm your target..."

"Blah-bloody-blah," he interrupted, undaunted by this fairly obvious information, "Do they know where I am, where I've been? Close at all to sussin' me out?"

"No. They can't even figure _how_ you escaped. They told me you just...walked."

"Hats off to our friends the pigs. Incompetent as always," Spike remarked, tone full of sinister mirth. "Though it wasn't as simple as all that."

"How _did _you get out, Spike?"

Of a sudden, he became serious, near hostile, "I don't trust our doctor/patient privilege anymore, luv. So, sorry, but 'm not sharing."

Jumping from his perch, he held a hand out for Buffy to take, which she did, not wanting to frustrate him by hesitating or refusing the action.

"I will say this," was his continuance, lacing his fingers with her own and leading her toward the door, "It was the dog's bollocks, the power of escaping. Fun as all hell, much as my little confrontation with your hubby a few hours back."

Buffy immediately stiffened at his words, pulling from his touch, as though she'd been burned.

"What the _fuck_ did you do to him, Spike!"

"Telling you would take all the mystery out. And I do love suspense," He responded coolly, opening the door in mock-chivalry. Buffy moved toward the exit, but was stilled as soon as she had begun. "Elizabeth, dear. I'm letting you off easy. For now. You go, see Peaches, pack a bag." He said, and she could feel him behind her, a hand on her shoulder, lips too close to the scar on her throat, "And don't try an' run. I'd just have to find you again, and I can taste you anywhere you go."

A shiver passed through her, one she tried to conceal. "A bag?" she asked of him, her voice shaking noticeably.

"Didn't I mention it?" She sensed his smile on her skin, "This mission, it's the both of ours. How do you feel about travel?" A rhetorical question really, so he concluded, "Me? I'm rather homesick m'self."

* * *

Spike gave her a shove out the door, and Buffy stumbled, nearly fell. Righting herself after a few steps, she looked up to see Harmony casting a worried glance in her direction.

"Buffy, don't get mad, I didn't want to disturb you guys, but they've been calling for, like, twenty minutes, and..."

"What is it Harmony?" She cut the girl off, frustration overriding her fear at Spike's presence behind her.

"It's your home number, but it's some...detective, calling about your husband..."

Fuming, Buffy snapped, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, he said _he_ was your husband." Harmony responded innocently, and Buffy followed the secretary's eyes toward Spike, who had passed her and was heading for the door, a severe smirk playing at his lips.

"Sorry, Doctor." He said, turning and walking backward, his hands clasped behind him. Then, looking from Buffy, he added lasciviously, "See you Harm," before disappearing from sight.

She could only stand, shocked into paralysis and watching the spot her former patient had occupied. Then, for the third time in not yet an hour, she was seized with concern for her spouse.

"Harmony?"

"Yes, Boss?"

"Hold my calls," Buffy threw over her shoulder as she nigh sprinted from the lobby.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

Leaning against the brick wall of the psychiatric office, he remained hidden in shadow beneath the awning that shielded all who entered. Raking long fingers through platinum curls, he watched Elizabeth rush past him. Blinded to his observation of her, she continued on her way to her auto, wrenched open the driver's side door, and climbed into the black SUV, slamming it to behind her.

Smirk still in place, Spike turned his back on the scene and slid away from the building he'd only just vacated.

He had a mission.

He had preparations to make.

He had forgotten a few things.

* * *

Buffy heaved a pent-up sigh of agitation, burying her face in small hands, gulping massive amounts of air, and struggling to keep tears at bay. Crying was a weakness, a belief she'd always upheld despite her training. This morning, though, was rapidly becoming a bundle of tragedies even she could not dismiss.

Slamming her hands upon the dash, she bit back a scream and let hazel eyes rove wildly around the vehicle she now sat in. They came to rest upon an object which she had flung onto the passenger seat after leaving Sunnydale.

Her purse, and peeking out above it, the butt of the gun she had been given, standing in stark contrast to its new owner. She: structured, cautious, so rarely violent. And so unlike _him._

The pistol mocked Buffy. She would never use it. And _he _wouldn't hesitate to.

Feeling disjointed and near helpless, she exhaled sharply and tossed her handbag to the floor, gripping the steering wheel with one hand as she turned the key in the ignition with the other. Gunning the engine, Buffy then peeled from the lot, tires protesting loudly, expelling the distress she'd refused to.

* * *

All she could see were lights. Long signifying emergency, the pulsating strobes of color mesmerized Buffy as she watched them chase one another along the glass of her windshield. The playful look about them almost calmed her, but she soon remembered the severity of their presence.

Practically tumbling from the vehicle in her sudden and desperate haste to exit, Buffy propelled herself onto her driveway, which was occupied by uniformed officers milling about looking official, as well as two patrol cars―the source of the illumination that had so held her attention. In a daze she closed the car door behind her with a jarring slam, getting the attention of a woman she recognized: Margaret Walsh, Los Angeles Chief of Police. Buffy had worked alongside Maggie and a few of the detectives under her command during the ordeal with William. And ironically enough, here she was again, her own husband in danger, and through it all, one variable remained constant. Spike.

She began to rub her throat violently, squinting in order to keep from sobbing in front of the female advancing upon her.

"Buffy." The chief gave her a succinct nod, which she returned.

"Maggie." She couldn't keep her breath from hitching with the one attempted word, but decided to continue, "Is it―is Angel―is it bad?"

She sounded like a child, she knew.

Maggie looked away, and Buffy fought nausea. The woman was tough-skinned, unemotional, the perfect officer. For Walsh to be hesitant at the question posed left Buffy flailing.

"Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt you or Liam?" Maggie spoke at last, dodging the original query.

Her fingers now played roughly along the outline of her jagged scar, keeping tempo with the drumming of her heart. She wanted to scream, wanted to mourn, wanted to do anything at least _mildly _proactive. And yet she couldn't.

"No."

So she lied.

Who was she protecting? Spike was dangerous, yes, too much so for the police to handle, to comprehend. But he was definitely responsible for whatever had transpired tonight. And by shielding the department, she was both obstructing justice and harboring a criminal. Not in her home, but, for some twisted unidentifiable reason Buffy did not care to examine too closely, in her heart. At that moment, the sentiments of the last tape she'd made concerning Spike had never rung more true. He 'd returned. And once more, she was affected.

"Buffy? Dear, are you going to be alright?"

She realized that Walsh had been intermittently speaking to her and shooting her looks of confusion.

"Yes," she replied, shaking her head to clear the fog that had settled slowly around her through the course of the day.

"I think you should talk to the detective I've put in charge of the case," Maggie said, having obviously repeated the offer several times while Buffy was otherwise involved in thought. The psychiatrist reprimanded herself for deviating from the subject she should be most concerned with: her husband. She blushed apologetically and regarded the chief, whose expression screamed _you poor thing_, but whose mouth simply stated, "Here he is now."

Buffy followed the gesture that had been delivered over her shoulder to the man standing at her back. She turned to find him there, appearing extremely contrite. Detective Riley Finn.

_Homicide _detective Riley Finn.

"No," she denied it, voice barely above a whisper.

* * *

The deadbolt remained broken, an everlasting reminder of the LAPD's forced entry. Pulling yellow caution tape from its close-to-five-year station across the door, Spike moved easily into his old home, turmoil within belying the fluid motion with which he entered.

"What the hell are you screaming about?" His harsh and abrupt inquiry stirred the long stagnant air of the last free space he'd known, "I can hear you. There's no need to shout," he finished bitterly, angered by the constantly present whispers that chose now to begin their bellows. Robbing him of much-needed focus. He could not afford distraction. But those occupying his subconscious refused to lie dormant, riled by the events of the last few days: the anticipation, the escape, and of course, Elizabeth. Much like himself, the echoes in his mind were unable to hold their tongues where the Doctor was concerned. Still, his patience was quickly waning.

"Sod off. I've got work to do," he muttered, and in way of proving his argument, strode determinedly through the apartment, paying minimal attention to his familiar surroundings. He wasn't overly sentimental, would have much rather skipped the Nancy Boy nostalgia. But pressing matters had brought him reluctantly here...and fuck if his head didn't feel fit to burst.

"Bugger," he spat as he reached his former bedroom and the howling only became more intense. He was slipping, losing concentration. Glaring at the black duffel clutched in his right hand, he sighed heavily before depositing it onto the bed and beginning to pace. He willed the voices to quiet, and when they disregarded him, only increasing in volume, attempting to overpower their host, he snapped. At the end of his tether, he forcefully unzipped the bag, and rummaged through its contents. Fingers closing around three similar objects, Spike faced his last resort.

Thorazine.

Haldol.

Risperdal.

Anti-psychotics they'd forced him back onto upon his arrival at Sunnydale. He'd obliged them for a time, so as not to rouse suspicion, but soon he couldn't take the silence. Their false sense of reality. It felt like the greatest blasphemy, downing those pills for months, stopping up the company in his skull. Eventually, he'd begun to hide them. Not wanting to be pacified, not believing in the heresy of mortality, he'd squirreled away the treatments. Welcomed Chaos Home. The doctors, the shrinks, they'd all been puzzled by the lack of effect the medication was having on him, so they piled on a different brand, more science to explain away his phenomenon.

He'd avoided those as well: pressed under his tongue, tucked into his cheek, never swallowing. And the gits were surprised. Third brand. He'd crushed them up and mixed them into the food of others as crazy as he was said to be. They'd never caught him, they'd stopped trying to rid him of his affliction, and he'd bided his time. And it had come, and curiously, he'd snagged the cures to take with him, not really knowing why he was loath to leave them behind.

Now staring at the prescriptions in his grasp, he understood. They were lies, but convincing ones at that.

Thorazine.

Haldol.

Risperdal.

He peered warily at his enemies: capsules filled with padded walls, straightjackets, nighttime restraints. Portable electro convulsive therapy, trying to prove him mental. Spike hated being controlled even more than he hated the icy disbelief held toward him and his identity. These tablets, they were the epitome of both. Deny and control: fucking torch-wielding villagers they were. Utter betrayal to all that was holy and tainted within him. Neither side of his fragmented self would allow being smothered by three remedies contained beneath child protective caps.

It was unethical.

But then, Spike didn't have time for ethics.

He didn't have time for much.

Deciding that both good and evil would just have to come to terms with his transgression, Spike removed the tops of each bottle. He wasn't exactly the portrait of rational thought at the moment, so overlooking dosage, he swallowed two of each type. Not caring really, he knew from experience the recommended amount could take weeks to serve its purpose. He was in the mood for a quick fix.

Securing the lids on the drugs, he tossed them haphazardly into his bag, shutting his eyes against sudden blurred vision. _That_ was no medicinal side-effect; if his manufactured sanity didn't kick in soon, he'd be receiving a visitor. Schizophrenia was the greatest hallucinogen, after all. And he _really_ didn't have time for guests.

Spike moved into action, gritting his teeth, standing against whatever awaited him.

"Be a gent and go away, yeah?" He bit out, hoping the shadow at the corner of his eye would listen. Surprisingly, it crept away from him without revealing its face, and Spike let out a breath, simultaneously stepping onto the mattress before him. He had to be quick about this. Reaching above his head, he pushed a familiar spot on the ceiling, keeping at it until he felt the tile give. He then slid it to one side, groping blindly for what must still reside in the space only he knew of.

They'd searched his home; he'd seen them duck into his bedroom as he was dragged away in cuffs. Maybe looking for another martyr, his most recent human sacrifice. He'd been amused at their disappointment to find nothing. They shouldn't have expected it. You don't shit where you eat. And with the exception of Cecily, neither did Spike.

At any rate, the search had come to no fruition. Had the gun-toting swine truly scoured the place, however, they'd have found something to use to stick the needle in his arm. Bringing that same thing to his chest, he planted both feet on the floor and sat back upon the spread. The hefty parcel was covered in dust and cobwebs, but otherwise unfazed by the passing of time. Without hesitation, Spike wiped away the coating and gazed for a stretched-out second upon the box now in his lap. Metallic and secure, it held secrets even Elizabeth's prying analyses hadn't compelled him to divulge.

From beneath the fabric of his t-shirt Spike pulled a thin silver chain, working the clasp and taking the small set of keys that dangled from its end. Fitting one to the box's lock, which kept the contents safe from all but himself, he waited for the click before opening the lid and feasting on his possessions with appreciative eyes.

He ran a quick glance along the prized ones he hadn't viewed in years, knowing he didn't have time to sift through everything, take account of the stories behind each. Elizabeth was waiting. He thought of her with a leer, and digging through his duster pocket, pulled out the plastic i.d. bracelet that had plagued him for months. Because she'd left, because she'd offered no explanation. Because she'd taken so much of him with her. Snarling to himself, Spike added the band to his box, closed the lid, and snapped shut the lock before stuffing all into his duffel. He restored the tile to its place in the ceiling, and the chain to its place around his neck, standing and stretching and exiting his old flat with no more thought of the past, but of the very near future.

* * *

Finn restrained the petite woman as she started to race toward her house. Her entire body was stretched tight with the effort to hold in the wail even he could feel. He hastily assuaged her greatest fear.

"He's not dead."

She relaxed immensely at the declaration, though she pulled from him and furrowed her brow, silently asking for an elaboration. "But he is hurt pretty severely."

"How severely?" She asked quietly, wrapping her arms protectively around herself. "I mean, will he be ok?" Her questions were monosyllabic, lacking the usual professional demeanor. He could understand. This involved her husband. And her patient.

"William did quite a number on him."

She seemed to flinch at the mention of Beverley.

"Something wrong?" He asked her, though he knew the reason for her reaction.

"How do you know he did this?"

"He's after you, you've been told as much. I'm sure you'll believe it when you see your husband," He replied, none too gently.

"Where is Angel?" She asked as if she didn't know.

"Hospital. He's in a coma. His doctor's aren't exactly sure if he'll..."

"Wake up," Buffy concluded woodenly, already heading toward her car. "I need to see him."

"You shouldn't drive. I'll take you," he proffered, earning an exasperated look from Daly for his trouble. But she nodded in gruff affirmation, allowing him to lead her to his car. She slid into the passenger seat, and he moved to shut the door, but was stopped by her voice,

"Could you turn off the lights?"

He got in behind the wheel and obeyed her request, a little puzzled. Watching her close her own door, he was close to asking what had bothered her, but she again beat him to it.

"Thanks. Those things hypnotize people. They mean disaster, like a fucking train wreck. Can't help but watch."

Riley nodded sympathetically. This case was becoming a little too complicated; he was surprised at Daly's composure. And unsurprised at her declaration. A killer on the loose, husband in a coma...he wouldn't exactly want to be ogled.

Little did he know, the both of them were being watched. Closely.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6:

She barely felt the warmth of the SoCal sun as it beat down upon her face. Just gazing motionlessly out of the window, she watched the passing blurs, flashes of a world she felt disconnected from: shops, streets, and traffic lines. This is what it took―hovering above catatonia―for Buffy to absorb her peculiar situation.

"Are you okay?"

She didn't know what she would do if another person asked her this same idiotic question. But ever the nice girl, she assured him with a watery smile, "Yes. I'm fine." Turning to resume her blissfully void reverie, she was once more interrupted by Riley's voice,

"You don't remember me, do you?"

"What?"

"No, of course you don't," he continued with a nervous chuckle, "I-uh, I collared Beverley. I was a rookie at the time. Actually, his case is how I made detective."

Buffy took a glimpse at the man beside her, trying to recall his face. She couldn't. She didn't care. Was this the part where she congratulated him? He looked so damn expectant, reminded her of a lost pup. She decided on a noncommittal, "Oh".

"I'm not bragging," he amended, reading her negativity, "I wanted you to know why I'm working this. He's my biggest arrest to date; I want him recaptured."

She said nothing, afraid if she opened her mouth, she'd laugh. Riotously. And Finn might just misinterpret the act as offensive. Couldn't have that. Still, Buffy found it hard to picture Spike being 'recaptured'.

"Good luck." She said. And she meant it. Because he'd need it.

She went back to her previous occupation of sit n' stare, but again was offered only a moment's respite,

"Do you understand him?"

"Do I understand _who_?" she responded, an incensed sigh trailing her words.

"Beverley. I've read his file numerous times, and I just can't seem to grasp a motive."

Buffy felt herself grow dour, "What do you want to know? Spike is...complicated at best."

"Spike?"

She could have bitten her tongue in two.

"_William_. His profile is difficult, even for myself." She hurried on as if the slip had not occured, "He's not sane, so natural logic does not apply."

"Is it true he hears voices? And, I mean, he sees things? Thinks he's God? "

Buffy cringed at the way Finn sounded: an awe-struck teenager, a child clamoring on about Superman.

"He's a very conflicted individual." She felt so odd, so cold. She knew this _individual_. She'd talked to him, listened to him...she'd nearly believed him...

"What's that like? Can you imagine?"

Disgusted, Buffy faced the window once more. However, she answered, because she'd had thoughts of the same caliber herself. Morbid though they were, compared to Finn's of giddy excitement, they were the same notions.

"I'd imagine it's like having a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other," she replied stiffly, "And never knowing which one to obey."

"So, what do you do?"

Buffy faced him with a seriousness that choked.

"You obey them both."

* * *

She stood by his bedside, attempting to tally the wounds littering his vulnerable form. She lost count. Addressing the doctor waiting in respectful silence at the threshold to the room, Buffy told him to enter.

"How did you find him?" She asked, not bothering to face the man, nor ask for an introduction.

"He was brought in. A neighbor, I suppose, but whoever it was didn't stay long enough for me to meet."

"Will his injuries heal? The bruises?"

"There may be a certain amount of scarring, but for the most part, his body should recover."

A long quiet followed his reply. Buffy knew she was asking the wrong questions, but she didn't know where to begin.

"And his mind? Will _that _recover as well?" She inquired at last, trying and failing to keep the venom from her tone.

"Mrs. Daly..."

"I'm sorry. That came out harsher than I intended," she recanted, looking to the doctor. Young and boyish, his I.D. badge read 'Ben'. He nodded apologetically,

"I understand. This is difficult for you, and I can't tell you much. Except that the first 48 hours are crucial. The longer he stays under, the less likely his chances for survival. The best thing you can do right now is wait."

Without another word, she moved from the man, sinking heavily into the chair next to Angel's bed. She'd wait.

* * *

Time passed, and she sat, watching the sun disappear.

Thinking.

Thinking.

Thinking.

That maybe _he'd_ disappear. Although, which 'he' she most wanted to go, to disappear, was getting difficult to decipher.

She loved Angel. She did. Their union was safe, protected, a marriage. She trusted him. She'd given him his nickname. He was the one with the angelic face. Honest and sweet, the kind of man every adolescent girl dreamed of settling down with. The kind of man whose name was written on notebooks and binders in pink marker, encased in hearts drawn by swooning sixteen-year-olds.

They were stable. They never fought. They never had problems...until Spike.

Four years she'd worked with William. And her boyfriend, who became her fiancé, who then became her husband, couldn't comprehend her reasoning for visiting a client in prison, for constantly reviewing a case that had been settled long ago. He never knew how deeply involved she was with a killer. And Buffy never spoke of Spike, no more than to explain that she needed to treat such a man, who was so the antithesis of Angel.

Spike was Trouble.

Spike was Hell.

Spike was Hers.

Thinking on it now, with Liam hooked up to tubes and monitors providing the only noise in the steadily darkening hospital room, Buffy didn't really understand why she'd hidden her betrothed from Spike. She'd gone so far, during their relationship of sorts, as to remove her engagement ring, and eventually her wedding band, whenever entering the penitentiary for their sessions. Maybe she did understand. She usually tried to avoid analyzing herself, but she couldn't. Not now. Not when Spike was involved and she was thrown back into the same confusing alternate dimension that was his reality. Not when she couldn't stop herself from wondering just where he was, and how soon until she'd see him again. She felt twisted. Because she wasn't worried as she should be. Wasn't thinking of his return in terms of a bad, dangerous, and ultimately catastrophic phenomenon. This didn't feel like a fugitive targeting her in some yet unknown scheme. It felt like a...reunion.

_Shit._

She'd had enough, and Angel hadn't so much as flinched. Somehow, Buffy was relieved. Facing him today, her mind wrapped around another, would be...difficult? No. Irritating. She was so tired, and it was late, and the direction of her thoughts had veered toward alarming. When had she become so negative? She loved Angel.

She did.

And she was concerned for him. The news of his possible demise had knocked the breath from her. Because he couldn't die on her. It would be...irresponsible.

_Shit._

Rising abruptly from her chair, she exited Angel's room. She needed air. She needed help.

Another ache escalating quickly within her head, Buffy rubbed her temples as she moved down the hall. She needed a lobotomy.

She passed the customer service desk of ICU without a second glance. Until a thought occured to her..._He was brought in._

"Excuse me?" She directed the question to the night-shift staff behind the counter.

"Yes?"

"My husband was admitted this afternoon, and I was told that he was brought in by...someone. Is there any way you could tell me who?"

The nurse furrowed her brow in uncertainty, so Buffy hurried to reassure, "I just want to thank whoever...saved...him, that's all." For effect, she beamed pleasantly at the young woman, though she felt anything but.

Picking up a clipboard, the RN looked over the sign-in sheet, "Liam Daly?"

"Yes."

"It's right here. I'm not sure how to pronounce..."

A finger beneath the name in question, she showed it to Buffy, who read it quickly, immediately knowing its significance.

The paper was signed, _Adonai_.

_Shit._

With a rushed word of thanks, Buffy moved away from the desk, pushing forward and out of the double-door entrance to Intensive Care. She should find Riley, tell him he could retrieve his 'biggest arrest to date' right in this very hospital. But she wouldn't. And she knew it. Oh, he'd worked her over _well_...

"God damnit...Spike!"

As if on cue, an iron grip took hold of her arm, a familiar hand clamped over her mouth, and Buffy was pulled roughly backward.


	8. Chapter 7

Spike's#1 fan: The suggestion you left, if I'm interpreting correctly, has been in my brain since the beginning of this fic. Otherwise, as an Angel-loather, I would not have kept him breathing. I'm only telling you this to let you know I can't give you credit for the idea, nor should you think it stolen.

Many thanks. Jim.

Chapter 7:

"You've got quite a mouth on you."

His murmur was an encompassing ripple, draining Buffy of resistance. She felt herself being hauled against his chest as Spike dragged her into a shadowed hallway and moved to her front, never releasing his grip.

He gave a nearly pleasant wink; even in darkness she could see the vibrant color of cerulean orbs.

"I'll let you go...but there will be no screaming, or cursing my name again. Dreadfully annoying, that is. Promise?" With the limited range of motion he was allotting her, she nodded sincerely, and he stepped away, "Have a nice visit? See anything you liked?"

His apathy stung, yet Buffy was far past defensive, far past raising her voice. "Why are you doing this?" she inquired leadenly, "What could you possibly hope to gain by..." she wasn't able to finish, she didn't have the energy.

"He was in my way. Had no other choice."

"He could _die_."

Somehow, the phrase sounded empty.

"_Uh-huh_. I suppose that _would_ be―sad―" Spike began sardonically, "Won't happen though. 'S not part of the plan."

"What plan, William!" she whisper-shouted, feeling her body wilt beneath the pressure of its own lassitude. "Please listen to me..._please_...you don't_ control_ these things. You lack that kind of power..."

"And _you_ lack faith." Despite an austere tone, he smiled genuinely, knowingly, "I saw you...so distraught in the arms of my arresting officer, when your 'Angel' is irrelevant. His death is not _mine_ to make." Then, as was his habit, Spike's split-second sympathy disappeared, "Though, don't mistake me. I control _everything_. You'd do well to remember it, Elizabeth."

Buffy cradled a still-aching head in her hands, groaning, "What is it you want from me?"

* * *

Spike didn't answer. At the moment, he _needed_ to escape.

Looking past Elizabeth to the interior of the ward she'd exited, he watched two Uniforms flanking Detective Finn, coming determinedly his way. He was certain he hadn't been spotted just yet, but they were speedily advancing, and he was conspicuous as all hell. Elizabeth followed his gaze, and upon seeing the men, seemed ready to call for help. Quickly, he grabbed her forearm and moved them both deeper into the corridor. Sure that they would remain hidden from sight should anyone look, Spike went about finding a way to keep her silent.

Before he could speak, she wrenched her limb from his grasp, and not heeding the risk of their situation, or his policy on no-screaming-no-cursing, yelled,

"What the hell are you doing?"

Spike gave a truly devious smile as he forced her back against the wall, and was reminded of the day they met, how he had cornered her this same way...

"What I want. _From you_..."

She peered at him uneasily and he couldn't help but snicker.

"Come on then, luv," he urged, slowly encircling an alluring form, "Give us a kiss."

* * *

Buffy was at a loss. She couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything to evade him. By instinct, she closed her eyes as he captured her lips in his own, and then...she was bounded. His taste, his scent shrouded her. Smoke and leather and a cool tongue, Spike coaxed her into responding. He made her pliant, so she did not object to the movement of his hands beneath the hem of her blouse, the way his fingers pressed into her skin, pleasurably bruising.

Soon enough, she was in oblivion. Like most of Spike's traits and abilities, his ministrations blurred the lines between them. With an easy confidence, an assuredness that forever surrounded him, he took that which was not his. And yet she gave no thought to retreating, for he was flawless in his pursuit of her. As if they were the definition of normalcy, he poured fire into his action, a flame all but consuming her before he pulled away.

She had to grind her teeth to keep from protesting at his abrupt halt, but then saw his reason heading down the hall. Riley and his companions had passed on without noticing the pair, or if they had, had merely chalked it up to some couple's public display of affection. Either way, Buffy was greatly relieved she and Spike had gone uninterrupted. Whether this was for the shame of being caught in such a compromising, not to mention disreputable position with a former, and highly dangerous, patient, or because she'd rather continue their former..._activity_...Buffy really didn't want to think about it.

He turned toward her again, leering in the most smug and searching fashion. She hoped to God he couldn't see her blush, hear her heartbeat drumming painfully fast. Dipping his head low, Spike brought their eyes level,

"You've got quite a mouth on you."

His words of earlier, spoken both mockingly and seductively, made Buffy remember a few things...

Where they were.

Why they were here.

That she was a married woman...

* * *

The slap she delivered made his skin sing.

Facing her, he flashed a sneer, but contained his anger for the moment. They didn't need words; they both understood why she'd reacted this way. Convictions: a hard habit to break. And Spike knew he'd overstepped his bounds. He simply did not care.

Growling his agitation, he watched her watching him. A stare down ensued. Elizabeth then attempted to maneuver her way around him, as if he'd brook her leaving. Again. Her impudence made him want to laugh, but now was not the time. Where there was one detective, there would be more, and Spike refused to be caught. Not before he was finished, and there was still so much work to do...

Mutely, he took hold of her wrist and walked briskly through the maze of a hospital. When finally they reached the outside, Spike continued to pull her through a mass of automobiles, looking for what he'd left...

There was a tug on his arm, and he whipped around to find her staring intently at him.

"What?" he snapped, relishing her recoil.

"Where are we going?"

Spike said nothing. It was not _he _who needed to answer for anything. He resumed his trek with Elizabeth in tow, reaching at last the DeSoto Sportsman he'd recently acquired.

"Get in," he commanded brusquely, opening the passenger-side door.

Again she attempted to free herself of him, and again she failed. But still she declined, "No."

Spike was losing patience, a quality which was never in abundance.

"Get in, or I'll _throw_ you in."

Suddenly scrupulous, she inquired, "Did you steal this?"

"No..." he drawled exasperatedly, "I bought it like the decent bloke I sometimes am."

She didn't believe him. It didn't matter. She was getting in the fucking car.

"We don't have time for this, Elizabeth. Please don't make me get violent." He tried excessively hard to keep his voice below menacing, but it was a losing battle.

She must have noticed the wire his attitude was balancing on, for she stepped forward and slid onto leather interior. Only then did Spike release her, and closing the door, dug keys from his pocket. He crossed to the opposite side and ducked into the auto. Revving the engine, he observed―with some level of amusement―the anxious expression gracing Elizabeth's features as she made sure to buckle up.

"Where are we going?" she asked once more.

He felt the need to oblige her.

"To work."


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8:

She hadn't realized he was being literal. But there they were, outside her office, he dragging her along: his own personal ragdoll, easily transporting her despite her inert weight.

The building was closed, business hours long over. Spike stopped abruptly at the entrance, pushing her in front of him.

"Open it," he said, not requesting.

She stared at him blankly, and he nodded toward the locked doors.

"I know you have the key. Go on."

She didn't bother asking him what he needed, or why they were here. His answer wouldn't really matter. Whatever it was, she would probably end up giving it to him...except...

"I can't," Buffy replied, relatively happy for this small triumph, "Key's in my purse, which is in my car...at home."

She smiled at him then, condescending yet sweet as she pleased. Spike made some non-verbal noise of agitation.

"I don't have time for this..." he muttered more to himself than anyone, before regarding her again, "Alarm?"

She stopped smiling.

"What?"

"Do you have an alarm? Inside?"

She didn't know. Or she couldn't remember. Or she didn't want to tell him.

"Why?"

He made that noise again. Somewhere between a growl, a grunt, and a sigh.

"Fuck it."

Buffy nearly yelped at the sound of shattering glass. Breaking the bolt, Spike withdrew a now-bleeding fist from the hole he had created, and cocked his head to one side, listening.

"Guess not."

He opened the door and walked through, not waiting for her to tag along, knowing she would. Following, she found her eyes drawn to his hands. Fresh from his previous encounter, he had successfully managed to re-open and worsen each wound. Buffy felt her stomach drop, because in her time with the department, she'd seen psychotics exhibit a somewhat elevated tolerance for pain...but Spike? Hadn't even flinched.

She considered this a bad thing.

Still, she trailed after him, continuously stumbling, grabbing onto his duster as she tripped through darkness she couldn't navigate. Thrice in one day, she could have easily suffocated on the paradox. As the one person who had the most evidence of Spike's raving insanity, she now relied on him to keep her from falling. Making him, at least for Buffy: The Way, The Truth, and The Light.

She'd laugh if it wasn't pretty tragic.

Spike led her straight back "to work", pushed her to sit on the couch. Then he moved from her, and she strained to see what he was doing. There was no need, for moments later he returned, bringing with him her telephone and Rolodex, dumping them both in her lap.

"We're gonna disappear for a while, you and I."

The declaration shocked her, for reasons she wasn't quite certain of. He'd said much of the same all day.

"That kind of thing, people get suspicious. Now, The Husband's no threat there, obviously, but you _do_ see a mess of nutters on an almost daily basis, and I'm sure they'll go _completely _barmy if you leave without word." A pause, and then, "So call 'em. All of them. Cancel your appointments. Tell 'em...tell 'em it's a family emergency or what all, I don't care. Just do it, an' don't mention me."

Instruction over, Spike turned, then seemed to think better of it, "Oh, and Elizabeth," he added, crouching down to catch her gaze, which had fixed itself dumbly on the objects he'd tossed to her. He reached forward, grasped her forearm and twisted it to expose the palm. Buffy's eyes remained downcast until she heard a soft click and saw the glint of moonlight off a blade unfolding from its handle. Her heart raced as he drew a track of crimson along her lifeline, posing his threat with perfection,

"Dialing 9-1-1 is an easy way to lose a finger."

It hurt. The cut. And the realization. That she wasn't immune to his menace, his temper. She couldn't force the disappointment down, knowing that Spike would likely kill her as soon as she proved herself useless.

Buffy looked from the blood pooling in her hand to the telephone resting on her thighs, and then to Spike.

"Okay," she whispered, a simple answer to a complicated demand.

* * *

Her voice made up the background, and Spike only half listened to her explaining away the skepticism of unstable patients. As soon as she was too engrossed in doing so to pay any attention to _his _occupation, he strode to her desk, intent upon retrieving what he'd forgotten. And there they were, right where he'd left them. Maybe it was the sickness talking, but Spike partly expected them to have vanished. His existence had always seemed fairly theoretical anyway, making tangible records of his so-called legacy nigh impossible. Yet there they were, and call it a rare show of sentiment, but he was glad to see them. Those tapes, chronicling history as Spike knew it. His biography: carefully extracted by Dr. Elizabeth Summers-Daly, and real enough to slip into his pockets.

Which he did.

After stowing away the last cartridge, and hearing the receiver placed back onto its cradle, he glanced over to find Elizabeth grimacing as she held her slashed hand close. A box of tissues lay on her desk―convenient for an emotional therapy session―and Spike grabbed them, going to her.

"You all right?" he asked, holding out the box. She took a few, pressed them against her wound, wearing an expression that made him regret the question.

"Better than you," she returned, looking pointedly at his ravaged fist, "You should clean that up."

Her genuine concern made him uneasy, so he ignored it, "I will. Why'd you stop?"

"I'm finished."

"You've rung everyone?"

She nodded, telling the truth.

"Good. Not done, though," he said, "You've got one more. Rupert Giles."

Elizabeth peered at him quizzically, for sure trying to suss out some hidden motive. But Spike had nothing to hide. Well, not much, at any rate.

"He saw you today. He'll wonder where you've gone. Probably put two and two together an' send in the pigs. Clear it up, would you?"

"I can't," she said, spouting the two words that repeatedly hindered their progress, "His number's in my cellphone, which is in my..."

Spike waved a dismissive hand, "In your purse. In your car. At home. Right."

She seemed pleased with herself again, as if discovering a loophole in some supposedly air-tight contract involving the two of them. She really _did_ lack faith.

"Come on," he directed her, placing a hand beneath her elbow and steering her toward the door, "We can solve this elsewhere. I've already got what I came for."

Spike couldn't help but feel like they were going in circles. Here and there, back and forth: it was starting to make him dizzy. Or maybe that too was the sickness...wouldn't matter soon enough. Just one last call.

Buffy noticed the changes right away, because she distinctly remembered leaving her car running by the curb. However, when her home came into view, the vehicle did not. Moreover, nothing she recalled from mere hours ago remained. The residence looked deserted, devoid of life, and that fact alone personified the source of all the silence and police tape.

Spike, naturally.

"Your house always look this dead, pet?" the source asked, reading her thoughts, taunting her with them.

"Just today," she replied absently, exiting the DeSoto and moving to her front door. It was unlocked, little surprise there. Honestly, she was beginning to question the LAPD's ability to either protect _or _serve.

Upon entering, she was sure.

It was obvious the interior had been cleaned as best as possible, though Buffy was forced to close her eyes against the various sprays of blood staining the walls and carpet of what no longer felt like her family room. She made her way quickly to the garage entrance in search of her car,

"Love what you've done with the place," Spike offered snidely, "Or, rather, what _I've _done."

The door's slam was the only answer she gave him as she stormed out and climbed into the SUV. Reaching for the bag she'd thrown to the floor, her eyes were caught once again by an object that, until this very moment, she'd never considered a viable solution to the havoc that was William the Bloody.

Yet, seeing through a haze of red―blood-red, to be exact―Buffy decided on a few things.

She didn't want to die. So she'd make herself useful.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9:

Spike came out of the bathroom, drying his hands. He shook his head indulgently at his most recent rash behavior, and was more than certain he would need stitches to undo the damage he'd inflicted on himself, but didn't much care. Distractedly, he threw the towel streaked crimson to one side, not minding where it landed. As bloodstains went, the soiled linen possessed the least of many in this once des res. Spike's eyes scanned lazily the room he'd gone into, rather proud of the destruction wreaked here. His appreciation for the palpable violence he'd left behind him only heightened when he saw her.

"Something the matter, pet?"

Elizabeth stood before him, rigid and shaking visibly from trapped rage. In the doorway connecting the entrance hall to the lounge, she'd positioned herself, looking deeply disturbed. Though it was not her emotions that had evoked the severe understatement on Spike's part, but the fact that she'd leveled a gun in his direction, aimed fairly well despite trembling hands.

"Yes," she said, and though Spike had expected vehemence, her voice carried an oddly pleasant tone, "We have a problem."

"Do we?"

"I can't make that phone call for you. See, I found this…gun…in my purse, and something occurred to me," she told him, purely impassive.

"What's that?" he asked, trying to keep his temper in check, "That you've gone off your trolley?"

He failed.

She laughed.

"Imagine _you _thinking _I'm _crazy. No, Spike, don't be stupid."

"All right," he said, taking a step forward, "What is it you've―"

"And don't come any closer." She waited for him to back off before continuing, "It occurred to me that you, William, are a killer. And nothing you can say, none of your i_nfluence _over…people…will change that."

"That right, luv?"

"Stop interrupting. The truth of it is―you know what _truth _is, don't you?"

He began to make a patented smart-ass remark, though obviously the question was rhetorical.

"Don't answer that. The _truth_ of it is that shooting you would be self-defense. And I really have no problem defending myself."

"Go ahead then, sweetheart. Slay me," he provoked with a grin.

"Thought about that…but something else occurred to me."

Spike was getting rather brassed with the girl's epiphanies, "Yeah?"

"I'm not sure if a bullet would kill you."

His smirk widened, "Neither am I. Do it…and we'll find out." With that, he started to close the distance between them, slowly.

"I asked you not to come any closer," she said, and Spike heard the tremor making its way into her voice.

"And I'm asking you to kill me. Come on, Elizabeth. Give it me good."

She faltered, and he used the opportunity to draw himself near.

Glancing at the pistol now pressed directly over his heart, he said,

"You're not going to shoot me, are you?"

* * *

Buffy was surprised by the disappointment tinting his tone. At the same time, she heard the challenge; she pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

Again…

His laugh was vicious, mocking, "Safety's on, luv."

She wondered briefly if that was some kind of sign, as if Spike _couldn't_ be killed. At a more logical time, the notion would have been immediately dismissed, but today, omens were everywhere.

Defeated, she did not move as he took the gun from her.

"Where'd you get this?" asked he with a long whistle, "Knives weren't the only weapons I collected, you know. This_…_" he told her, laying the sidearm flat against his palm,_ "this _is a Beretta. Cougar, if I'm not mistaken. And I'm not. So, I suppose you've got Detective Finn to thank for deliverin' a thing of pure death straight to a _killer."_

The last word was stressed with just the right level of fury, causing a flush to crawl through Buffy's skin. She hung her head, but continued watching him as he disengaged the catch that had rendered her defense useless.

"Look at me," he demanded, voice amazingly cold, accepting of nothing but her compliance. When she had given it, Buffy was shocked wordless as she found herself staring down the barrel, "That half-assed attempt at defiance deserves punishment. But I need you," she knew enough not to relax at his words, waiting for the condition, which came in the form of, "…at least for now." A pause, and then, "Still, you've wasted my time, and we've got loose ends to tie up. That's your job. Do it fast," Spike said, raising the firearm in the style of a marathon starter.

"On your mark."

He cocked the hammer.

"Get set."

He cocked an eyebrow.

"Go."

He put a bullet through her ceiling.

* * *

Rupert Giles had fallen asleep at his desk. Waiting all day by the phone for further news regarding his missing patient, or his soon-to-be-missing job, was too troublesome to bear with no rest. And not surprisingly, when at last he'd drifted off, he was jolted awake again by the shrill tone of the blower.

"Hullo?"

"Hello? Mr. Giles?"

Immediately alert, he sat upright in his chair, rubbing grogginess from aging eyes, "Dr. Summers. It's…" he glanced at his wristwatch, "rather late. How are you?"

A harsh laugh broke through to his end, making the poor woman sound awfully unnatural.

"I've been better."

From her response, Giles got the feeling he shouldn't press the matter, "What do you need?" he asked, a little concerned.

"I would like to apologize for my behavior toward you this morning. I didn't mean to be rude, but the mention of William Beverley caught me off guard."

"I understand―" he began, but was interrupted by her declaration of,

"My husband was attacked."

Rupert sighed, "Yes, Detective Finn told me as much. I was sorry to hear―"

Again his attempt at niceties was foiled, "The police believe William committed the assault, and I'm…not sure what to think. But I need to be with him―my husband―so I won't be exactly reachable, for the next few days."

The content of her speech, and the manner in which it was delivered―stilted and without inflection―struck a chord of caution within the older man, "Are you quite alright, Buffy? You don't seem well."

"I'm fine," she rushed to reassure. There was a pause, a muffled noise, and then Summers was back on the line, "I…I have to…go."

Before he could pose another question, or even offer a good-bye, the dial tone was buzzing in his ear, and what had been a subtle inkling of oddity became full-fledged suspicion.

_I have to go…_

"Oh, dear Lord."

* * *

Buffy winced, "Does it need to be so tight?"

"Can't have you hitting me again…or laying hands on another weapon," he told her, ripping the duct tape from its roll, "Don't complain; I'll be forced to gag you."

She bit her lip, swallowing discomfort at the arms wrenched and bound behind her back. Watching Spike circle her, surveying his work, she tried to flex her wrists. When this showed itself to be an impossibility, she slumped into the chair, sulking. Their situation had definitely taken a turn for the worse. Angered by her obstinacy, Spike had forced her―at gunpoint, she might add―to first pack a duffel, then contact Rupert. She'd done his bidding, yet still managed to cock things up, her mechanical obedience too phony to be believable (according to her captor, anyway). He'd interrupted Buffy in the midst of her phone call, shoved her into a chair, and whispered hotly in her ear to 'chivvy along'. She took this, accurately, to be his way of telling her to hurry up, which she did. So much so that his fury was not assuaged. Then came the restraints.

"Elizabeth," he called, grabbing her attention as he came toward her, "stand up."

With some inconvenience, robbed of the use of her upper appendages, Buffy rose. Spike knelt for a moment, gripping the handles of her overnight bag. She caught sight of the Beretta as he did so: flashing-steel tucked into the waistband of tight jeans. Fresh distress hit her, the notion of how close she had been to escape biting at her conscience. However, such thoughts, _all _thoughts, were dispelled at the feel of Spike's hand on the small of her back. Nearly comforting it was, the soft pressure of him guiding her away from all she knew. This was as nice as he'd be, Buffy realized. The most kindness he could show: hand-holding her through this bizarre night of atrocity he himself had caused.

And it was baffling, really. Because his simple touch _did _make her feel―

A jab of pain shot through her as she was tossed to the floor of the DeSoto. Buffy grunted, twisting around to watch her once-client-now-kidnapper slam the backdoor of his vehicle and leave her lying prone and disoriented. She heard him cross to the driver's side; she managed to roll onto her back. The action was immediately regretted, as her shoulder wedged itself painfully against the bench seat behind her. Attempting to muffle a cry, she caught Spike's attention.

"It won't help. Struggling, I mean. You may as well enjoy the ride," he told her, his statement simultaneous with the sound of the engine turning over. From her position, she had a good view of his profile. She knew he was smiling, and got the distinct impression that their 'ride', however metaphorical, was to be a long one.

Even still, only when the car began to move did Buffy resign herself to her predicament. With arms going numb beneath her own weight, she observed what little scenery she could from the window. Minutes flew by in a silence only broken by a whispered pitiful exhale as, through her limited vision, she read:

_You are now leaving Los Angeles._


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10:

Whether it was conceit, consideration, or otherwise, Buffy couldn't tell. Whatever the reason, Spike had provided her with her own motel room. She didn't know where she was exactly, just that he hadn't taken her out of California (_yet,_ anyway), and she was now standing in the middle of a dingy, dimly-lit area, trying not to fall asleep on her feet.

"I trust you won't run," he said after shutting the door, smirking teasingly, moving close.

And so it was conceit.

Stretching her fingers, Buffy grimaced at the feel of chafing flesh beneath multiple layers of gray adhesive. Craning her neck to peer behind her, she stared both wistfully as well as apprehensively at the rather squalid queen-sized bed a few feet from her, before turning that same stare to Spike: silent affirmation.

With a nod bordering on compassionate, her subjugator reached around her body with both hands. Their faces inches apart, Buffy got the impression that he was going to kiss her again, and perhaps more alarmingly, that again she would respond in kind. Such an impulse was quickly driven out at the now-familiar click of Spike's dagger; yet she must have made some non-verbal sign of attraction because, lips at her ear, his next words were,

"You'd like that, would you?" before, with a swift motion, he cut through her ties.

* * *

Elizabeth said nothing, just let her arms fall, seeming to find her raw-and-reddening skin very interesting of a sudden. Though, Spike knew what she wanted. Had known, and abused it, the first day they'd met, with his fangs in her throat, and tonight, with his tongue in her mouth. He'd felt how easy it would be to overtake her: how she would accept it, how he would enjoy it. And now, the way she was breathing, blushing…all his assumptions had been correct.

He removed the remainder of tape stuck to her now-separate wrists, and brought her injured palm to his lips.

"That hurts," she stated simply, sedately.

"I apologize."

"No. You don't."

Azure orbs made a slow pass down Elizabeth's body: mussed blonde hair, weary green eyes, full lips glossing pink. A low-cut top, a silk skirt. All coupled with those strappy, impossibly-high-heeled shoes that women somehow managed to walk in . She didn't know how she looked, how she caused men to _look_. She didn't know, but Spike could fully appreciate her…assets, so to speak. And he snickered. Because she was telling the truth. Because he wasn't sorry―not at all.

Meeting her gaze, his own laced with suggestion, Spike replied, "Go to bed, luv."

She turned from him wordlessly, preparing to do just that, when the hand he still held caught his attention. The flash of gold, the shine of diamonds…

"Hold up."

On autopilot, Buffy did as she was told, exhausted and used to his antics by now.

"What?"

"Take them off," he demanded, gesturing to the rings symbolizing her marriage to Angel.

She shook her head.

"No?" he replied, by all appearances amused at the thought of her refusal.

"No," she confirmed, extracting her hand from his grip and, with more courage than she felt, showing him her back, moving to sit on the decidedly unclean mattress.

"You won't be needing them," he informed, coming to stand in her line of vision, "None of that exists. Not here. Not with me."

"If that's the way you wanted it, why didn't you just kill him?" she asked, bitter for all the wrong reasons. Because she already understood. Why her husband was in a coma and not in the ground. She knew what Spike was doing: chipping away at her, dragging her down to subservience. The fact that Angel had gotten involved was inadvertent, but convenient. For Spike, it was just another way to toy with her.

"I see the future, Elizabeth. And I've already told you: his death is not _mine _to make. Despite the look, what's left of your Liam is me practicing _restraint_. I could just as easily lose it. So, do yourself a favor."

Without waiting for agreement, he took the bands right off her finger and strode to exit the room.

"Now what?" Buffy asked him, tracking his departure, unable to move for some reason. Not until he spoke. Gave her…permission.

"Now, you're alone. Get used to the feeling for a while." Opening the door, he halted with one boot over the threshold. "And for the record," he said, holding her rings up for scrutiny before slipping them, and their connection to her spouse, into his duster pocket. Proving a point. "It's not _people_ I have influence over. It's _you._"

She ripped her gaze from him, the resonance of his words all too realistic. She heard him scoff. She heard the door close. She heard the lock slide into place.

And so, Spike was gone.

* * *

Not for long, of course.

Buffy, too tired, too disgusted to shed her clothing or crawl beneath the comforter, had slept on top of the bed linens, and awoke to the sensation of being lifted.

"Liven up, dear. Time for all good doctors to rise 'n' shine."

Unsteadily, she was set upon her feet, but kept her eyes closed as long as his hands were on her. It was far too early to start with him again.

When at last his touch left her, Buffy peered with caution at her surroundings. The same room from the night before―now lit up bright by an overhead flourescent―was far more filthy than she had first perceived. Paper curled from the walls in long strips; spiders, roaches, and other various bugs lay dead on their backs in every corner. If it wasn't for the outside door being thrown open, allowing a cool breeze to enter, Buffy was sure she would retch at the acrid stench invading her nostrils: the air heavy and stale with sex, alcohol, and additional odors she chose to ignore.

The only thing she did _not _observe within the room's confines was Spike himself. She knew that he could not be far off, but didn't dare waste a moment of escape. Through apprehension and the sense that she had not slept nearly long enough, Buffy made her way toward the exit. Clearly, she had forgotten that the motel room she occupied resided on the second floor.

Her hands closed around the balcony railing, and she looked down, up. She'd been right about not sleeping long. The sky showed no signs of the approaching day, still swathed in black. The California skyline, dense with pollutants and smog, did nothing to allow what little light stars and moon provide to reach her. Buffy sneered at this environment which served only to make her more hopeless. This vast expanse of darkness seemed to be doing Spike's bidding. Just as everything did.

She again swung her stare around, and caught sight of the steps on her far left, leading down and out. She wondered if she should chance it, if she could vanish before her captor returned―

"Boo."

No. She couldn't.

Even through obscurity, Buffy saw her knuckles go white as she clutched the banister hard enough to make her joints sore. A slight incline of the neck, and there he was. At the corner of her eye, leaning against the stucco wall of the motel, smoking a cigarette and picking at the chipped polish on his fingernails as if he'd been beside her the whole time. And he probably had. She diverted her gaze once more, this time focusing on the pavement: far below her and as black as the night surrounding them both. So she couldn't get away. But she _could_ prevent him from taking her any further...

"Good morning to you too, luv," he remarked, effectively curbing her impulses.

"It's morning?" she asked, for no real reason except to fill silence. Taking a step away from the edge, she wrapped her arms around her suddenly-cold body, the cool breeze of earlier turning frigid.

"Yeah. And we've gotta get going."

She looked at him in question, but said nothing at the sight of her bag by his feet. He was taking her further…

Spike tossed his cigg over the balcony and picked up her luggage. Watching her watching him, he gestured with the duffel,

"I was going to let you change, but there's no time for that now. Only a few hours 'til first light, and…"

He strode past her, not bothering to close up the room she'd used, not halting to see if she'd follow.

"And?" she asked, rooted to the spot.

He faced her with a raised brow, "They'll be coming for you."

A moment's pause, and then Buffy trudged after him, mumbling to herself,

"No, Spike. I don't think they will."


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11:

"This is completely inexcusable! I came to you with this information _days_ ago, and you're only taking action _now?_!"

Rupert Giles, forgetting his usual propriety, raged at the woman before him, disgusted by her refusal to cooperate. She, however, stared at him unfazed, her hands folded calmly upon her desk.

"Please, take a seat," Maggie Walsh asked, her tone similar to that which one would use in controlling a disobedient child. Ignoring her, Giles maintained his standing position, towering over her with arms crossed.

"No, thank you," he bit back icily, "I'd like to know just what the hell kind of department you are running here."

Sighing condescendingly, the chief of police turned her gaze past the middle-aged man, to the detective approaching her office. "Finn," she called, giving him permission to enter.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Could you please explain to this gentleman why an investigation into the whereabouts of Mrs. Daly was not begun until this morning?"

The expression the plainclothesman adopted at the command gave the impression that he would rather not; but knowing his place, he obeyed, "Procedure dictates that, for any individual over the age of eighteen, a Missing Persons claim cannot be filed for a 48-hour waiting period," he recited expertly, hands behind his back, feet apart: more in the way of a soldier than an officer of the law.

Nodding her approval, Walsh spoke again to Rupert, "Buffy is a capable adult woman, sir. Who, by all indication from her patients―and _yourself_, if I may remind you―has taken time off from her profession to tend to her husband. I really see no cause for alarm."

"Except for the escaped psycho-killer stalking her," Riley put in under his breath.

"And if I may remind _you_," Giles went on, deliberately bypassing the previous comment, "I said that our conversation was not out of the ordinary. However, the woman's _behavior _was no less than unusual."

Maggie looked prepared to vindicate his statement with an all-too-practical response, so he cut her off, continuing with his point, "So where is she? She hasn't visited the hospital since Liam was admitted, hasn't checked in at her office, and hasn't been spotted by her neighbors, or anyone for that matter, in two days! How do you explain that?"

"How do _you?_" Walsh shot back, and Rupert, readying himself for the declaration he was soon to make, at last complied with her request to sit.

"He's taken her."

Not a soul needed to be reminded who 'he' was.

Silence descended upon the group, only broken by the sound of wood scraping against the floor as the chief stood and crossed the room, closing the door to her office so as to protect their discussion from prying eyes and ears.

"_If_ I were to agree with you," she began, choosing her words carefully, "it would hardly matter. A state-wide manhunt is assembling as we speak with the express purpose of William Beverley's recapture. If indeed he has kidnapped the doctor, when we find him, we will find her."

"Is that the best course of action?" Finn interrupted once more, this time receiving attention from both of the higher authorities on the matter. They looked at him as if he had sprouted a second head, so he clarified quickly, "If we publicize his escape, won't he…disappear?"

Removing his spectacles, Giles rubbed at increasingly aching eyes, "No. He's too arrogant for that."

Riley was forced to agree. When apprehended, nearly five years ago, Beverley had been watching television in his apartment. The door was kicked in, and he never took his eyes from the screen, merely laughing as he was cuffed and Mirandized.

"Are you sure?" he prodded.

"Yes. He won't go into hiding; he won't delay any plans he has made. He won't even go so far as to change his bleeding appearance," Giles told him, a scoff accompanying the prediction, "He doesn't fear being captured. On the contrary, he's absolutely certain he won't be. At least not until he's ready, not until he's completed _whatever_ task his escape heralds."

"He's going to hurt her."

Again Giles denied the younger man's assumption, "No. She's obviously an integral aspect of his…vendetta, for lack of a better word."

"What makes you so sure of that?" Walsh interjected, and received a stare that meant she did not want to know, and he did not want to tell her. Changing her direction accordingly, she then asked, "What about _after _he's finished? After he's completed this 'task'? What of Elizabeth then?"

Giles didn't respond, and that was answer enough. Each of the three cast their gazes to the ground, suddenly grim and guilty for their own mistakes leading to the current state of affairs.

The Sunnydale director was the first to regain speech, "You―you should widen your search parameters. Try, if you can, to get other states involved. The ones where…"

He didn't finish the sentence, because it was unnecessary, and somehow vulgar:_ The ones where the other bodies were found._

"That shouldn't be difficult. William's crimes crossed state lines, making his case federal," Walsh assured.

"Good," Giles said reflexively, though the word sounded out of place in this dialogue, "Use any outlet available to you. The media in particular. If Beverley happens to notice a report on himself, it won't deter, only amuse him. But that may prove to be his undoing."

Three separate nods were an unofficial end to the impromptu meeting, and Giles quickly exited the room, leaving the chief and her employee to their own devices.

Maggie settled herself back behind the familiar territory of her desk, her high-ranking position. Finn, however, made no move to go, and cutting a glance in his direction, she said, "Return to work, Detective."

He remained, glaring at her. Furrowing her brow, she regarded him impatiently, "Do you have something to add?"

"No, ma'am," he replied, though she could tell he was lying, and after a pause, he reinforced that sense, "Just that, if she dies, it'll be on _our_ heads."

"Excuse me?"

Repeating himself, he then added, "We should have done this sooner. Elizabeth was in danger; we knew that. We should have started a search sooner."

"You mean _I _should have, don't you, Finn?" she queried, a hardness to her voice.

He neither confirmed nor denied the conclusion, but she knew, and attempted to justify, "Procedure―"

"Fuck procedure," Riley spat before turning on his heel and storming from the office.

In a last-ditch effort to maintain authority, Walsh bellowed, "Detective!" but the door had long since been slammed shut.

* * *

_Utah_

Anyone passing the couple huddled in a booth at the back of the diner would think them very much in love. The man whispered into his companion's ear, running his fingertips across a strip of exposed skin below the hem of her blouse. Her face remained hidden behind a length of blonde tresses, her head ducked low as if hiding a smile and hanging onto his every word.

This is what anyone would see.

This is not what was real.

"Scream, Elizabeth," Spike commanded mockingly, watching her expression contort with anger and distress, "You know you want to. Let go. Get someone else involved. Get someone killed. C'mon, Doctor. _Scream_."

Buffy bit her lip in frustration, her eyes cascading around the room from behind her veil of hair, halting upon every face, angry because no one would help her…or no one _could._

"Please. Alert every sod in this fucking place that you're being carted around against your will. I'd love the challenge. Scream for me."

She wouldn't. As much as she'd like to, as much as she wanted freedom, Spike had become her responsibility. From the moment she'd stepped foot in that holding cell and begun questioning him, or signed on to be his personal psychiatrist for the duration of his sentence, he'd become her problem, her obligation…_hers._ And she could toss that danger to some unsuspecting civilian with one cry. But she wouldn't do that―to either of them.

She shook her head violently, winced at the sound of his throaty laugh, "No? All right. Well then, if you're not planning an escape attempt, you should eat. I don't need you going all weak and sickly on me: starvin' to death. 'Cause throwing yourself on your sword won't save you."

She said nothing; she was rarely required to. Staring unappetizingly at the bowl of oatmeal on the table before her, she frowned.

"Getting picky, luv? No worries, I can wait. 'Ve got all day, really."

He was serious. They did have all day. For reasons she had yet to decipher, Spike would only travel at night, making their voyage to…wherever…longer than she assumed it should be. They'd crossed two state lines in two days, due to this unexplained habit, spending the solar hours holed up in some rattrap motel, or at a place similar to this one, with Spike always forcing her to eat, but never ingesting food himself. Instead, he would either observe her silently with a lit cigarette in hand, or goad her for her inability to leave him. Three square a day, he would provide, and this morning was no different. Though, for the half-hour they had resided in this booth, he had switched between quiet smoking reflection and mockery, as if having not yet decided which he preferred.

At last reaching for her spoon, Buffy choked down the meal, following with a glass of water before sitting back against vinyl seating and willing herself not to be sick. She hadn't been hungry. In fact, she hadn't wanted food since Spike's reemergence in her life. Her stomach in constant knots, the thought of eating seemed absurd, foreign, trivial. However, despite her present situation, she remained human.

Which was more than she could claim for William.

She felt him tense as a waitress approached them: his hold about her waist tightening, his touch no longer soft against her skin. Sinewy muscles coiled like a viper positioning itself for attack, but he played cool as the older woman (who looked as if she'd been working at this dive _far _too long) cleared the table and left the check. Upon her retreat he relaxed and stowed away the dagger he'd had waiting at the ready beneath the table.

Breathing a sigh of relief at the averted scene, Buffy watched him pull a wallet from somewhere within his duster. Spike rifled through it, producing cash enough for the bill and a generous tip. Where he got his funds, she could not guess, nor did she want to, considering a permanent freeze had long ago been put upon his accounts in an effort to prevent complications such as…_this_. Nonetheless, Spike paid the debts they acquired in full. The first time he had done so, Buffy had been surprised, to say the least, though she'd soon realized it as his only attempt at keeping a low profile. She knew he would never deliberately _hide _from those gunning for him. No, that would be a show of weakness, insecurity. Still, even he was level-headed enough to divert unneeded attention.

Standing, Spike held a hand out, which she knew better than to refuse. He drew her close, throwing an arm around her shoulders. Anyone watching would interpret the gesture as an affectionate one, except Buffy understood differently. It was a warning not to try anything, not to leave his side.

"Now you're getting it," he murmured as they strode toward the exit, "What it is to be a prisoner. To be trapped, under lock, key, and watchful eye. You're catching on fast, Elizabeth."

She was. And the truly pathetic part was that the small amount of praise he was offering her caused a ghost of a smile to tug the corners of her mouth. She shut it down speedily, hating the action at once. And as they moved out to the parking lot, Buffy chanced a look over her shoulder.

Maybe she should have screamed.

* * *

He left the door open. For the sake of not upsetting the criminally insane, each room within the sanitarium was just that. The chamber Giles now found himself perusing for the third time in as many days _would _be no different than the rest, if not for its previous occupant, William Beverley.

Rupert had been hearing, seeing, thinking that name quite often of late. Not surprisingly, what with the wreckage its owner was capable of reducing lives to.

At the room's center, Giles turned in slow, stationary circles, taking in the unsettling environment this once-uniform residence had become.

It was a shrine, of sorts. The walls, ceiling, and floor had been covered in evidence of a disturbing level of either hatred or homage to Elizabeth Summers. _Daly_, Giles corrected himself. Though, from the look of Beverley's one-track work, _he'd _known nothing of the recent union. There were drawings of the psychiatrist, all done from memory, Giles could only suppose. Every surface was vandalized with inked riddle-speak, unending spirals of verse William alone could comprehend. The ramblings of a madman with a purpose. Knowing _this_ madman, his need for Elizabeth could be for a wide variety of reasons…none of them very kind.

A sense of impending doom began to creep over Giles when he spotted a singular expression that, while enigmatic, was intelligible. Not written, but carved deeply into the wall beside the bed upon which William had slept, was the term _Slayer_.

The dread that weighted his stomach down was only worsened as a sharp knock sounded behind him. Facing the intruder, Giles viewed his newly-appointed receptionist waiting impatiently by the door.

"Yes?" he asked the young woman, 'Anya' he believed her name was.

"Call for you on line 1," she stated before turning abruptly, as if she cared very little about whether he received the message or not. Even so, he thanked her as he moved from the room and walked the long distance to his office.

Picking up the receiver, he pressed the hold button, "Rupert Giles."

"Mr. Giles. I was instructed to inform both you and the LAPD if there was any change in Liam Daly's condition."

He waited for the speaker to continue, and when he was greeted with silence, prompted, "Well?"

Again there was nothing but the quiet, and he thought he'd been disconnected. However, his confusion was replaced by anxiety when the pause was effectively broken with,

"He's awake, sir."


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12:

_"This will be our final session, William."_

(laughs)_ "What, not 'cured', am I?"_

_"Far from it. But I can't be your doctor anymore."_

(pause)

_"Why not?"_

_"I_―_just can't."_

(scoffs) _"Cheers for clearing that up."_

_"I'm sorry, William."_

(pause)

_"Do I scare you?"_

_"Why would you wait until this moment to ask me that question? You never have before."_

_"I never reckoned I'd have to ask, before."_

_"But you do now?"_

_"Well, you're pissin' off, aren't ya? Fear's the usual reason for a thing like that."_

_"I don't mean for you to feel abandoned."_

_"Such sentiments'd work better if you weren't _abandoning _me."_

_"William, please…"_

_"Why do you keep calling me that! You know I don't like it!"_

(pause)

_"Elizabeth?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"Do I scare you?"_

_"No."_

(pause)

_"Liar."_

(pause)

_"I've chosen a qualified replacement."_

_"I don't _want_ to replace you."_

_"I'm not sure I'm doing you any good. We're not progressing as I'd hoped. Someone else, someone…neutral, might be able to help you…more than I ever could."_

_"Don't do this. Don't turn your back jus' when I've shown you all the dirty little things I've done."_

_"Not _all_ of them. Not Cecily."_

_"I don't want to talk about her."_

(sighs) _"Of course you don't. But I thought you might make an exception for today, considering it's your last chance to_―_"_

_"To what? Repent? Lay my bleedin' burden down? No thank you, Doctor."_

_"We'll never get anywhere if you continue to hide her from me."_

_"She betrayed me."_

_"That's what you always say."_

_"And that's all I'll ever say."_

_"Why?"_

_"I don't kill-and-tell."_

_"And the other five? What of them?"_

_"The other five weren't 'kills'. They were sacrifices."_

(pause)

_"You're a very sick man, William."_

_"So they keep fucking telling me."_

_

* * *

__Kansas_

There was more, but he didn't want to hear it.

The memory of their last meeting had always inspired ill feelings in him; he didn't need the play-by-play recording as a reminder. He'd said some things he shouldn't have, planted images in her brain that had served to reinforce her 'very sick man' statement. He was horrible when he was angry, and at the time he'd been furious.

Elizabeth was his sin-eater. He'd needed that, needed her, hated her for fleeing him. And now, driving too fast along a semi-deserted pitch-black highway, he hated her for making him hate her, because such a strong emotion only embedded her deeply and forever beneath his skin. And more than that, he _loathed _himself for becoming so dependent on she who should have remained his enemy. Not since Cecily had someone possessed even a modicum of the power over him―or abused that power―in the way the doctor had.

He hated her for that, as well.

Spike blew smoke out of the lowered window. Watching the cherry of his cigarette glow red, he cut a quick glance toward Elizabeth asleep in the passenger seat. After several days on the road (in which he'd finally convinced her he could make life as comfortable as possible if she'd stop resisting him) she no longer needed to be bound to be transported. Despite this, she slept curled in the fetal position, protecting herself even in slumber.

Smart girl. She was right not to let her guard down in his presence. He felt an unbidden twinge of regret at the thought of what lay in wait for them, what he would have to do.

"Elizabeth," he spoke to her inert form, "I wish it hadn't come to this. But we choose our paths, and you chose yours. We all have our prices to pay."

He halted here, as if he expected a response, and when, predictably, she remained silent and still, he continued with, "I admit, I overlooked a few…details, at first. This is where you'd say 'errors are what prove you're human, Spike' and I'd disagree, so 's a rather fortunate thing you're not exactly payin' attention, innit? What I mean about 'details' is I didn't count on your being married. I don' need your forgiveness, but I wanted you to know that hurting you so early on was not my intention…though hurting _him _was_. _

"I did and I do need him outta the way, luv. What with the cops gunning for me, your Angel was a complication I couldn't tolerate. For now, he'll live, not that it matters. To me, that is. Don't go getting offended."

An incessant buzzing was the only reply. Searching for the source of the noise, he opened the glove compartment to find Elizabeth's mobile phone vibrating where he'd last discarded it. Accepting the call, he brought the cellular to his ear.

"Hello?" a familiar British voice inquired.

"'Ello, Warden." he began, amused at the turn of events, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"William," came Giles' stony greeting, "What have you done with Dr. Summers? Where is she?"

"Guess."

"This is not the time for games, you prat!"

Spike clucked his tongue reprovingly, "Oi! Rupes, you're no fun. I understand your concern, but 's hardly advisable to insult the bloke who has the advantage. And the hostage. Something you of all people should realize, running an institution such as you do."

"Where is she?"

"You're persistent, I'll give you that," he said, chuckling, enjoying himself quite a lot, "She's right next to me."

"May I speak to her?"

"Oh, sure, I'll put her right on," he mocked with a sneer, "How thick do you think I am? And remember, no insults."

"It's imperative that I speak with her."

"Sorry, Warden, she's off limits. 'Sides," he added, glancing at Elizabeth once more, "she looks so peaceful; I'd rather not disturb her."

"What have you done, William?" asked the director of Sunnydale, his voice rising an octave and bordering on frantic, "Have you harmed her?"

"A bit pessimistic, are we? No worries, she's only sleeping," he assured, listening to the audible sigh of relief coming from Rupert's end, "I'd be more than happy to take a message."

A snort, closely followed by indistinguishable commotion, and a different voice was bombarding him from California,

"What have you done with my wife!"

"Glad to hear you're awake, mate. Was afraid I'd gone too far with you."

"If you touch her, I swear I'll―"

"Be careful, Liam," Spike interrupted, suddenly and gravely serious. Dropping his voice low, he warned, "Wouldn't want to say anything you might regret. As for Elizabeth, she's safe as houses."

"Yeah? For how long?" Daly shot back, his rage easily traveling the distance Spike had put between them.

"Long enough, if you cooperate."

"Cooperate?" he snarled his distaste for the term.

"If you have trouble with the idea, think of it as a life-or-death situation. Which it is. Her life, her death. What choice do you really have?"

"Not much of one," he caved, "So what do you want?"

"Heal up, boy. An' don't do anything rash. It'll be your wife who suffers should you try heroics."

"She's never done anything to you! Why her!"

There was a kind of desperation and defeat in his words, which seemed a last-ditch effort at saving something he'd already lost. Spike couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for the poor sod. But he could be honest with him.

"We all have our prices to pay."

He ended the call before Liam could protest, and turned his attention to Elizabeth, who had begun to stir toward the end of the conversation. Rubbing the exhaustion from her eyes, she stared suspiciously at her phone in his hand.

"Who called?" she asked warily.

Spike tossed the phone out of the DeSoto's window, watching as it shattered into fragments on the asphalt before he said,

"The Husband."

* * *

"Fuck!"

Angel did not bother apologizing for the expletive, just gazed dumbfounded at the phone, its dial tone an insult as it droned on in the silence of his living room.

Despite having recovered from his comatose state days ago, he was still adjusting to the fact that his wife, _his_ Buffy, had been abducted by the same chemically imbalanced mental patient who had recently beaten him to the point of unconsciousness, and was now anywhere between here and who-the-hell-knows, all on the whim of a serial killer.

"Fuck." he repeated.

"My feelings exactly," Rupert Giles replied sympathetically, sitting beside Angel and handing him a glass. When the other man gave him a skeptical look, he added, "It may not help, but it can't hurt."

Agreeing with a soft grunt, Angel swallowed a generous amount of the liquor.

"I'm assuming he didn't tell you anything useful."

"Depends on what you describe as 'useful'," he sighed, glowering into his whiskey, "Basically? He'll kill her if we interfere."

Out of habit, he ran a hand over his face, wincing as he came in contact with the cuts, bruises, and swelling which were souvenirs of his confrontation with William the Bloody.

"What am I going to do?" he muttered, sinking into the sofa cushions, "Should I call back?"

Giles deterred him, "That would be pointless, I think. We were lucky he picked up the first time; we shouldn't push that luck."

"I just wish…I wish I knew where she was."

"Topeka."

Detective Finn strode in unannounced; Angel looked past him out the open door at his back. The protection detail vehicle that had been assigned to guard his home stood parked at the curbside as it had for days: a sign for all to know that something tragic had occurred at the Daly residence.

"You traced it?" he asked, his attention on the surveillance van.

"The Department put a tap on your phone. Sorry if you're offended."

"Not if it helped," he replied quickly, "Kansas?"

"I seriously doubt they'll be there very much longer, but yeah. Kansas."

"Well, it's a place to start," Giles put in with forced cheer, trying too hard to raise Liam's spirits.

Finn, on the other hand, had a strangely pleasant look brightening his features, "Oh, it's more than a place to start," he said with a self-satisfied grin, "I just realized where he's headed."

* * *

"Stop the car."

She said it with such conviction, as if she honestly believed he'd obey, that Spike almost wanted to. _Almost._

"What's wrong, Elizabeth? Didn't you sleep well?"

"Please, just―"

"Afraid I can't do that, luv. Got a schedule to keep."

"Stop the fucking car, Spike!" she demanded in a muffled whisper, her head resting on arms folded across her knees, "I'm gonna be sick."

Begrudgingly, Spike pulled onto the shoulder, killing the engine. They sat quietly for a few moments, listening to the sound of the DeSoto settling. Buffy swallowed hard and repeatedly. When at last she raised her head to face him, she could feel the tears drying on her cheeks. She could feel his hostility.

"What're you leakin' for?"

"Excuse me?" she asked, doubting that even this man could be so cold.

"Well, are you glad he's awake?"

"Or?" she returned, as if there was no other option.

"Or disappointed."

She'd predicted this statement, and yet was not as appalled as she'd thought she'd be. It was audacious of him, no doubt, but still she found herself considering the question. Why was she so upset? Why was her stomach in knots at the news of Angel's recovery? Whatever the reason, it didn't feel like joy.

Buffy had the dreadful feeling that with Angel back in the game, everything would be…

"Ruined." she let the nail in the coffin slip past her mouth, but may have overlooked the fact that she'd spoken aloud if not for Spike's sinister and all-too-penetrating smirk.

"What's that, Doctor?"

She looked to him helplessly.

"Oh, it's alright. You don't have to say anything," he assured her, sounding amused, "You know, for a psychiatrist, you're bloody transparent."

"Am I?" she replied, not slighted, but curious.

"I saw straight through you."

"And what did you see?"

"The first time I laid eyes on you? Nothing but discontent."

"Really?" was her counter, and in a show of cynicism, she positioned herself in his direct line of vision, widening her eyes, "How 'bout now?"

The grip she was coming to know intimately secured itself around her upper arm; he dragged her to him, leaving only air between them and boring into her with fierce ceruleans. His one word kissed her lips,

"Potential."

She couldn't be sure, as she never quite was with Spike, but thought maybe she understood his meaning. He'd been crawling much too far beneath her surface, making her question what she once knew, loved. Not only was she now uncertain of him, she was uncertain of _everything. _Though somehow, even through the confusion, she was pretty damn sure he wanted it that way.


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter 13:

Listening to the most recent of countless anonymous tips regarding a certain escaped convict's whereabouts, Riley heaved an agitated sigh, "Ma'am, I seriously doubt your ex-husband is the man we're looking for."

At the woman's shrill disagreement, he replied, "Well, because until recently, William Beverley was in state custody, and had been for almost five years. May I ask when you last saw your ex?"

He pushed the phone's receiver into the crook of his neck, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt while attempting to keep his temper in check, "That's an impossibility. Six months ago, the fugitive I'm after was being forcibly transported to a mental institution, so he probably didn't have time to debate with you over 'who gets the entertainment system.'"

The woman at the conversation's other end began to shriek.

"I apologize for being rude then, _ma'am_, but I would think you'd be less disappointed. William the Bloody _murdered_ the last woman he married. Consider yourself lucky!"

Disconnecting abruptly, Riley pressed the heels of his hands into tired eyes. He felt as if he'd been babysitting attention-starved callers for an eternity, and hadn't slept for just as long. Even this brief respite was interrupted by the rap of knuckles on his desktop.

He looked up to find Graham staring curiously at him, "Another one?" his partner queried, as if he didn't know.

"This is why I hate the fucking press," Riley grumbled in response, "The story breaks, and a million fucking morons are wasting time that could be used to _catch _this bastard."

"I've got good news, then. You can take a break from answering phones; Daly's here for you."

"Again?" Riley asked, glancing past his partner to see Liam at the opposite end of the station, hands shoved into his pockets, feet shifting nervously.

Graham nodded, "Again. What's he want, anyway?"

Standing, Finn waved Daly over, "Wants me to take a big risk," he said, unwilling to reveal more.

The other detective shrugged, "Maybe third time's a charm?"

"If not, he'll only come back."

"Wouldn't you?" Graham countered, "If she was yours?"

Liam was advancing quickly, so Riley kept quiet and headed toward Interrogation Room C.

* * *

Positioning himself in front of the two-way mirror, he folded his arms and watched Liam fidgeting in the doorway.

"Come in; close the door," he said, "Take a load off."

Liam hesitated a moment, then complied with the request, chuckling anxiously and cracking a few knuckles, "Sorry…feel like a criminal."

"It's a privacy issue. This case is getting enough attention; I don't need the entire department knowing what we know."

"Smart," Daly muttered, pulling up a chair. Lowering himself to sit, he grimaced and held onto his side.

"Ribs?"

"Some broken, some bruised," he admitted, a bitter edge to his tone.

The detective found himself wondering how Liam even managed to stand, much less make it across town for yet another confrontation. Beyond the extensive wounds Beverley had left him with, he just looked like _shit_. His eyes were bloodshot—weighed down by bags and ringed with dark shadows. His clothes were wrinkled, his hair matted, exhaustion blanketed his every move.

"How you feeling?" Riley asked, an unnecessary question, "Other than the ribs, I mean."

"I've been better. And I will be again, once she's home."

There it was. Riley knew it could only be a matter of minutes before they'd used all their allotted pleasantries and had to get to the point. Damn.

"We've been through this. I can't—"

Liam slammed a fist on the metal table he sat behind, "Don't! Don't jerk me around! Not this time! You know where she is; you know where he's taking her! Why won't you fucking _help _me?"

Riley felt his composure slip, "It's out of my hands. And more importantly, out of my jurisdiction. But I assure you, we've got the best men in the country on the trail."

"That's not good enough. You put cuffs on him the first time; you're the one I trust will do it the second," Liam retorted, shaking his head and mumbling, "No. That's not good enough."

Pushing off from the mirror he leaned against, Finn strode to the table and sat across from the grieving man, "Well, it's just going to have to be," he began, the irritation he felt reflected in his voice, "If I go over Walsh's head on this one, she'll remove me from the case completely. That means no progress reports, no information, nothing. For either of us. I help you, she'll have my balls _and _my badge. I can't risk it. Stop asking."

The fight seemed to go out of Daly at that. If at all possible, he looked even more beaten, broken, and weary than he had when he'd entered the precinct. Hell, he looked…dead. His shoulders slumped in defeat and he bowed his head like a dog that'd just been severely chastised.

When the detective felt he could no longer stand the silence or the guilt that was beginning to weigh on him, he made a weak attempt at comfort, "Buffy is an intelligent woman. She'll be okay."

A long pause followed his reassurance; he wondered if he'd even been heard.

"Intelligent…" Daly responded, sounding confused, "She's incredible: finished undergrad in two years, med school in three. She was...she _is_…so determined, so driven…she refuses to fail." He looked up then, the anger and despair in his expression unsettling, "But none of that will make a damn bit of difference if that psycho she's with gets bored."

Riley searched furiously for something to say and could only think of, "She'll find a way to survive this."

Liam sneered his skepticism, "I couldn't hold this guy off, Finn. What the hell is she supposed to do?"

* * *

_Ilinois _

From her seat in the car, Buffy watched him put gas in the tank. His body language begged to be analyzed. With one hand on the pump and the other raising a cigarette to his lips, Spike silently communicated his disregard for human mortality…his complete denial of his own.

Of course, this information was nothing new to her, and yet at the moment was bothering her more than usual. Restless and annoyed—cooped up in close quarters for hours on end—she felt claustrophobic. She needed to move.

Climbing out of the DeSoto, she stretched her limbs and checked her watch. 2:53 a.m. Dreading the monotony of the hours and highway that stretched before her, Buffy sighed and slammed the car door.

The noise got Spike's attention, "Where are you off to?" he asked, rotating the gas cap until it clicked into place.

"I have to go to the bathroom."

He nodded permissively, "Be quick about it."

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes or stick out her tongue, she took a moment to wonder just what in the hell was wrong with her tonight before heading toward the convenience store.

Even the little bell that rang as she entered the Stop 'n' Go aggravated her: she was completely on edge. Marching to the back of the shop, she passed the checkout counter and the clerk who sat behind it—absorbed in his examination of_ Hustler_'s newest centerfold. Her arrival overlooked, she went into the bathroom and locked the door.

She didn't need to piss, but had used the excuse to find a moment alone. Now, standing aimlessly at the heart of the room, Buffy wasn't sure what to do. Beneath the light of a flickering bare bulb, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and frowned. Moving to the sink and turning the taps, she cupped her hands under the stream of clear water and wet her face. Feeling marginally better, she reached for a paper towel.

And then she saw the window…

* * *

Spike tossed a few bills on the countertop, "Pump 4. And a carton," he added, pointing to his brand.

Setting down his magazine, the cashier retrieved the cigarettes, "Anything else I can get for you?" he offered unenthusiastically.

"Did a girl come through here?" Spike asked, canvassing the apparently empty store, "Blonde, short, wearing a green tank top and jeans. She was headed for the khazi."

The Briticism earned him a look that was first perplexed, and then disapproving, "Well, the can's over there," the clerk responded, gesturing vaguely, "but I haven't seen anyone. I've been busy."

Spike glanced at just what had kept the boy so 'busy'. _Asshole of the Month_: how fitting.

"Look, man," the little sod was saying, "I'm supposed to be closing, and you're the only thing keeping me from going home. So, if there's nothing else…"

Straining to sound pleasant, Spike interrupted, "I didn't mean to keep you. I'll be on my way, then."

Not acknowledging him, the stupid git pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and opened the cash register, removing money from the till in plain view. When he kneeled below the counter, Spike let the forced smile he'd been holding disappear.

Hearing the distinct sound of a safe combination being turned, he walked quietly in the direction of the bathroom, and halted before the closed door, finding it locked. He knocked softly, "Elizabeth?"

When she didn't respond, he called her name again: still nothing. "If you're in there, it'd be best to say so,"

She answered him then, her voice cracking, "J-Just a minute, Spike. I'll be out in a minute."

"All right, pet. Take your time."

He said it so as not to incite suspicion, but he could feel that something was amiss. She'd been acting strangely of late, distant and defensive. The energy surrounding her was angry, anxious. He could understand it. He had been unraveling the fabric of her life, the threads that were keeping her together, and he hadn't let up for a second, though he knew he should have. His intention had been to weaken her, to shock (and mock) her into submission, but he was beginning to think he'd pushed a little too hard.

Spike had learned long ago that every human has a limit: a breaking point that, when reached, results in either total surrender or a fight for dominance. He'd promised himself never to force Elizabeth to this juncture, simply because he wanted to avoid her reaction. He knew this woman. Whether she realized it or not, he knew her better than she knew herself. And so he knew that if she broke…she would put up one hell of a fight.

Yet he'd been unable to help himself; he loved the power of preying on her uncertainty toward him. She thought she could hide it, her attachment to him, but Spike was growing ever more confident that she had come to rely on him just as he had once relied on her. There was power in that as well. A power he couldn't resist. And he'd never quite known when to stop.

Someone was going to pay for his recklessness. Tonight.

Spike walked to the auto. Slipping into the driver's seat, he tossed his fresh carton onto the dashboard and sat staring at it. An odd sensation was niggling at the back of his head, and though he was hardly one for patience, his instincts told him to hold out. So he did.

Leaving his post minutes later, the clerk—bad businessman that he was—failed to notice Spike's continued presence. Obliviously, he secured the shop, got behind the wheel of a vehicle that could only be described as a death-trap, and drove off: muffler and brakes complaining loudly.

His patience no longer required, Spike left the car and prowled around the store's perimeter. What he was looking for, he wasn't too sure, but he made a practice of following his blood, and at the moment he was undoubtedly being led.

The rear of the mini-mart gave way to a vacant lot, beyond which towered an expansive wooded area. That vague warning on the outskirts of his mind became an all-out alarm.

And then he saw the window…

* * *

Buffy was more than hesitant to accept the consequences of the plan she was formulating, but the opportunity was too tempting to ignore. She had been deliberating for several minutes, pacing the bathroom floor, resolving to take the risk only to back down a second later. However, by coming to check up on her, Spike had unwittingly made the final decision. Hearing his voice so suddenly had reawakened a fear in her that had lain dormant for days. She couldn't return to him. Not willingly, anyway.

Stepping up onto the toilet seat, she tugged the window open and shoved the screen from its place, listening as it fell to the ground below. Finding strength in adrenaline and determination, she hoisted herself to the opening and balanced steadily on the ledge. She gave a very brief glance toward the pavement, speculating on the distance she was about to drop.

"Fuck it."

She jumped.

Too late, Buffy realized the descent would have an unpleasant end. Disappointment flooded her, but was soon overshadowed by intense pain as a rough landing caused the ligaments in her right ankle to overstretch.

Shaking with the force of her suffering, she rolled onto her side and clutched the swelling joint.

A familiar scoff sounded in her ears; she looked up to find Spike looming over her, an expression of disgust darkening his features.

"Bad move, Doctor," he snarled coldly, "Really, not wise at all."

* * *

He carried her under one arm as one would a petulant child who'd been throwing a fit. From her horizontal position, she examined the ground passing below and grew more panicked with each step Spike took. He'd said nothing more since discovering her. She was accustomed to his usual—extremely vocal—rage, but this change was foreign and intimidating.

She watched him grind his teeth and knew at once the gravity of what she'd done. A fragile calm had finally settled between them, and in one fell swoop she had destroyed it. Everything about him was hard and cold and violent again; she could feel fury coming off him in thick waves.

He refused to look at her, and she was glad for it. Buffy didn't want to see her death playing out in his eyes.

But it couldn't end this way…she'd done too much damage.

"Spike," she tried, not knowing what it would accomplish, but needing to stall him. They were nearing the car and she was becoming frantic.

He jostled her cruelly, "Silence is fucking golden right now."

She twisted in his grasp and swung her gaze backward, hoping for help from the store clerk, surprised to find the shop dark and abandoned.

"Long gone," Spike cut into her confusion, "Had a feeling you were pulling some daft shit…waited for him to bugger off."

With that he placed Buffy on her feet facing the DeSoto and opened the passenger door, "In."

Setting her jaw against the pain of suddenly supporting her own weight, she gathered her courage for the clash that was soon to commence, "Do you honestly expect it to be that easy?"

"Worth a shot," he replied, shrugging and stepping behind her.

Powerful arms encircled her waist and she was hoisted off the ground. Anticipating his next move, Buffy readied herself. When he attempted to shove her into the car, she braced her feet on either side of the door.

"C'mon, Summers, you're acting like a toddler!"

"It's _Daly_," she countered, for no other reason than to aggravate him.

But the remark may have been a blessing, for it seemed to distract him. Using the short diversion to her advantage, she brought her elbow back forcefully, jabbing him in the ribs. His grunt was barely audible, but encouraging all the same; she followed up the blow by snapping her head back and relishing the sound of popping cartilage. Though his hold did not loosen, Spike cursed loudly, and Buffy turned her head to glare over her shoulder. At the sight of blood flowing freely from his nostrils, she cooed sarcastically,

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did that hurt?"

"I don't know," he said before dragging her backward a few yards and hurling her against the car's side, "You tell me."

Dazedly, she slumped to the ground. Her head buzzed; her ears rang. Nausea and darkness threatened to engulf her. She tasted copper from a split lip. She felt a deep throb where her left arm had jammed in its socket; attempting to move it caused her nerves to momentarily catch fire, and then numbness began to creep along the limb.

Through vision blurred by the impact, she focused on Spike. Assuming he'd subdued her for a time, he'd turned his attention to his nose, checking for a break and staring bemusedly at his fingers when they came away red.

Steeling herself, Buffy ignored all physical objections and rushed him.

Thankfully, she caught him off guard; her momentum brought them both to the pavement. Before he could recover, she was straddling him, employing a vice-like grip between his legs.

Despite his obvious discomfort, a lascivious leer spread his mouth and he quirked an eyebrow, "Not exactly how I'd pictured it, sweetheart, but I'll try anything once."

She squeezed him until his grin turned to a grimace and he groaned in disapproval, "Shut up, Spike," she ordered, adding a bit more pressure for emphasis, "You talk too much."

Scowling, he retorted, "If you're not going to get me off, I suggest you _get off_."

One hand moved to her hip, the other fisted in her shirt, and he threw her from him like she was no more than a rag doll. She traveled in an arc, coming to rest gracelessly on gravel several feet away. Her back took the brunt, which in turn took the air from her lungs. Struggling for oxygen, she didn't notice his advancement until he was crouching at her side.

Dispassionately, he watched her splutter and choke, "What? Can't you breathe, baby?"

Forcing herself to relax, Buffy inhaled deeply, relieved when the feeling and fear of suffocating left her. Still, she was weak, hurt, and apprehensive of what Spike might do next, so she remained lying; but knowing she was far too vulnerable, and he was far too close, she searched for something to defend herself with.

Enjoying her agony, Spike seemed unaware of her hands as they skimmed along the ground's surface, alighting on a large rock stuck in the dirt and pebbles she was sprawled upon. Curling her fingers around the smooth-surfaced stone, she tried to coax it from the soil.

So employed, she forgot the man beside her, and flinched when he stroked her cheek. There was condescension in the gesture; she wanted badly to pull away.

"While I have you here, there is something I'm curious to know," Spike stated, sounding business-like, "What did you think was going to happen? That you'd beat me? Kill me, even? Do you have that in you?"

The rock finally gave way. With a hollow sucking sound, it dislodged from the filth and was sitting heavy and cool in her hand. She said a quick thanks to the Powers That Be.

He said, "Do you really think you'll win?"

"I just wanted to run."

"Hardly an option at the moment. Answer the question."

"Okay." She flashed a small but triumphant smile, "Yes."

He looked puzzled, then affronted, and as signs of the inevitable and familiar fury appeared, Buffy swung.

A crack accompanied the stone's collision with Spike's cheek, overwhelming all other sounds. But its viciousness guaranteed nothing; she knew he would not be deterred for long, and so didn't bother assessing whatever harm she'd caused, opting instead to put some distance between them and fast.

Eagerness made her neglectful. She rose quickly only to crumple to the ground again: her entire body pulsing while her mind rebelled against the suggestion that physical pain could prevent her escape. Resorting to an alternative pride would never have allowed had the situation not been so desperate, she pushed herself onto all fours and began to crawl.

Too soon, he was behind her—a fact she didn't hear or know so much as _feel_.

"Fightin' dirty, Elizabeth?" he spat in her direction, heated.

She said nothing, every ounce of her attention engaged in moving forward.

"Not that I mind, of course," he continued conversationally, and Buffy marveled at the adjustment even as she dragged herself along, "Just wish I'd realized."

What he did next…really, it was absurd to expect anything else.

Taking hold of her injured ankle, he gave it a sickening wrench, and however much she would have liked to deny him the satisfaction, she couldn't swallow the howl that ripped through her. As her wail abated with his mean-spirited chuckle chasing after, she wanted nothing more than to erase the smirk she knew without looking would be on his lips. Striking out with her other foot, she enjoyed a grin of her own as her heel connected with his chin.

A snarl. And then, "For the love of—lay off the face!"

Again capitalizing upon his irritation, Buffy shook him off and scrambled forward, resolving to attempt standing once more. This time prepared for distress, she lifted herself cautiously, each move deliberate and careful until she managed to remain more or less upright.

The satisfaction of accomplishment was short-lived; there could be no celebrating with Spike still at her back. He had yet to overtake her, leaving Buffy with the sense that he was waiting, strangely enough.

Gingerly she faced him, leaning her weight on the side which was in slightly less anguish. He stood unwavering before her, cocksure despite the swelling and mottled bruises marring his countenance.

"What now?" he asked, "Personally, I'd recommend forfeit."

She just stared; he went on like she'd offered a rebuttal.

"Don't mistake me, I applaud the effort. Done a bit differently, you might've made a clean break—disappeared into the woods and been rid of me before I even knew you'd gone. But this's become a losing battle…an' a pointless one at that. Jus' look at you: tremblin', you're in such pain."

So he was right, what did it matter?

"You're not exactly walking away unscathed," she responded after a beat.

"Yeah. Thing is, I'm walkin'. How 'bout you?"

"I'll live."

"Will you," his contemplative reply, as if the opinion was debatable.

He brightened in the next second, clapping his hands together sharply, "All right, then. Shall we finish this?"

Buffy faltered. Because he _was _right…and it _did_ matter. She was in constant danger of collapse; simply maintaining her position took exertion she didn't have the energy for. If she couldn't find a way to make a quick victory of this fight, she wasn't going to last much longer.

As she hurriedly scanned her surroundings for aid, dumb luck seemed to smile on her yet again. Spike's dagger lay unfolded and unheeded on the ground beside them, having escaped his duster pocket sometime during their skirmish—along with a near-empty pack of cigarettes and the silver Zippo he was never without.

"Well, let's have it."

For a quick moment she wondered if he'd noticed where her gaze had landed, but a glance at his expression spoke more of impatience than anything else. He saw her revolt as a nuisance, a distraction to be dealt with and permanently put to rest.

Fine.

Trying not to focus on how sudden movement would fully revive the ache that had only just begun to diminish, she lunged for the weapon. As her fingers gripped the handle, Spike barreled into her, sending them both rolling. Clambering to her feet, Buffy lashed out, and though Spike's evasion was timely enough to avoid serious injury, she made contact all the same, slicing through shirt and skin to leave an angry gash along his abdomen.

A silence followed in which they squared off and she held her breath. True to his unpredictable nature, however…he laughed.

"You're not half playing, are you? I'll admit, I had my doubts."

While undeniably preferable to the alternative, his amusement offended her, "The time is long past for empty threats, Spike."

"Quite."

Launching himself at her, he seized her wrist, turning it so she had no choice but to drop the knife, which he caught before twisting her arm behind her and using it to pull her against him in some demented form of an embrace.

"Show me your throat."

When she didn't comply, he barked, "Want me to fucking gut you? Do it."

Reluctantly she cocked her head to the side, feeling her pulse quicken as sharp steel met her carotid.

"Now," he continued, bearing down until she winced, "give me one good reason why I shouldn't end you right here."

"You can't," she said it and believed it in the same moment, despite her anxiety, "You won't."

"That so?"

"You need me."

A growl rumbled through him and Buffy looked heavenward, awaiting the opening of her arteries as punishment for presuming to know him.

The blade left her throat.

This was only a small comfort. Spike's hand replaced the weapon, crushing her windpipe and propelling her backward—slamming her atop the DeSoto's hood.

Her mouth fell open to form a scream she could not voice. Hazel orbs watered and bulged as slow seconds ticked by without air. The rubber soles of her tennis shoes slid across the car's smooth surface, searching for purchase where there was none. Digging her nails into his flesh, she knew it would do nothing, and knew that was the crux of it, always: there was nothing she _could_ do.

He allowed her to thrash about awhile longer, then covered her body with his own, pinning her down, "Killing you won't do me any immediate good, true…but don't push it, honey."

Point made, he loosed his hold, but kept her trapped beneath him, taking her face in his hands.

"See now," he said with a wink that was not remotely good-natured, "_This _I've pictured."

Chest heaving and throat raw, she managed a disdainful rasp of, "Prick."

He pressed his lips to her forehead, "Gotta work on your pet names, Elizabeth."

And then he released her, moving off in the direction of his fallen property.

Drawing her knees up, Buffy curled in on herself, letting her attention drift until the whole world was white noise. She remained static even upon Spike's return, merely watching as he tugged her into a sitting position, grabbed her forearm, and pulled her pliant figure over his shoulder. She was carried to the car's back end; she heard a key turn and the trunk open, but it was only when she was dumped in that Buffy's senses awoke.

Her shock must have been evident, for Spike regarded her oddly before saying, "Don't give me that look. You can't be trusted."

A sluggish mind could think of nothing to say to persuade him to reconsider. It wouldn't have mattered; he slammed the door shut in the next moment, plunging her into a vacuum. She was helpless in this new captivity, but several minutes of unbearable nothingness later, the car rumbled to life beneath her, and with it so did she: beating on the walls of her prison.

* * *

He should have hogtied the bitch.

The racket she was making had been working his nerves for the past fifteen minutes; they were beginning to fray.

Punching the roof of the car, Spike roared, "Belt up back there!"

_She can't hear you._

"Great. Exactly what I need," he muttered, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

_All right, mate? You seem to be having a spot of trouble._

"_Trouble? _She's driving me insane!"

A gruff laugh sounded in his ears and his ears only. _Good one._

"Leave me alone. My temper's been tested enough for one night."

_So calm down._

He didn't want to respond, didn't want to acknowledge this new aggravation. But ignoring one's own mind is a damn near impossible feat, so he said, "Like hell. Don't you see what she's done?"

_Exactly what you expected. Wouldn't have chosen her if she didn't pose a challenge; never liked 'em meek. You picked well._

He resigned himself to the argument. If that's what was needed, let it be. "I fucked up is what I did. I have to end it."

_You can't. You're not finished yet. Let's keep a clear head about this._

"Fuckin' hilarious, coming from you."

_She's not too far gone. I'm saying you can fix it._

"And how do you suggest I do that?"

_Up to you. Whatever you decide, though, make it quick. As much fun as rebellion can be, time's wasting._

"No shit," he shot back with an accompanying snort, "I wish you wouldn't bother me if you're going to be so bloody useless."

_Only here to motivate. This is your show._

"Is it? Wouldn't even be in this mess if not for you and yours."

_Bollocks. Not the reason you are the way you are. You know that. _

"Yeah, well you don't help matters. Be glad to be rid of you."

_She keeps fightin' you, you never will._

Tensely he waited: on pins and needles and hoping he was alone again. The only sounds were coming from Elizabeth's steady attempts to escape the boot, but just as he was ready to relax, that voice bounced around his skull once more,

_How's that for motivation?_

An automatic sharp rebuke very nearly fell from his tongue, until an idea began to form. Not bothering to decelerate, he veered to the right and roared onto an exit ramp.

"Pretty damn good," he replied belatedly.

* * *

The vehicle's sudden stop jolted her; she was certain Spike had slammed on the brakes for exactly that purpose. Though she didn't have long to fume, for soon the trunk door was opened and she was dragged out by her hair.

Carelessly, he deposited her on the ground and stalked away from her sprawled body. Pain that was fast becoming common enveloped her yet again, but too weary of this never-ending night to protest any longer, she lay still.

Spike leaned against the DeSoto's frame, looking at her as if he was coming to some sort of conclusion. Fierce gaze never wavering, he pulled fresh cigarettes from his duster, packing the tobacco by pounding the box against the flat of his hand. Fingers accustomed to this routine, he removed the cellophane, flipped the top and tore away a layer of foil before shaking out a stick. Watching him unnerved her somehow; his delay seemed meant to make her squirm.

He exchanged the pack he held for his Zippo, but left the cigarette unlit and resting between his fingertips.

"Can you stand?" Not a question, a command.

She did, albeit slowly. Finding her balance, she took note of their location: parked beside a deserted and neglected backroad.

"What are we doing here?" she asked, sounding more accusatory than was probably wise.

"Heading into the woods," he responded with a sweeping gesture that indicated the trees crowded together on either side of the path, "'S what you wanted, right?"

Any answer would be the wrong one, so she didn't bother, knowing he would continue whether she reacted or not. And he did.

"You want away from me so badly? You're free to go."


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter 14:

"What's the catch?"

"Glad to see your good sense returning," he replied dryly, but seemed in no hurry to continue, fiddling with the lid of his lighter.

"Well, what is it?"

"I'm the gambling sort, Elizabeth. And if tonight is any indication, I'd reckon you are as well. So I'll make you a deal: when I give the word, get as far away from me as you can. Run, hide, whatever. If I don't catch or find you before sunrise…you win. I'll be out of your life forever. Better still, I'll head straight back to Sunny D, spend the rest of my days bouncing around a padded cell."

"And if I lose?"

"I ask only for your surrender."

"Surrender?"

"Complete and Total."

"Huh."

"Those are the terms. Do you accept?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really, no."

Buffy considered this. Strangely, it seemed such a small thing for him to want, just that she not fight anymore. And really, he'd taken so much from her already; she had little left to lose.

"You have me at a disadvantage."

"Bum foot an' all?"

"Yeah."

"Well, now, I do think of everything, and I have thought of that."

He placed the filter between his lips. She followed the cigarette's movement while he spoke.

"Being as how I enjoy a leisurely smoke―and can't do so whilst dogging you all about―I'll finish my fag to the cotton before I give chase."

"What's that, a five minute head start?"

"More or less. Sound reasonable?"

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"There's a question, coming from you."

"That's not an answer."

"I've never lied to you before. Pointless to start now."

As if that settled the matter, he extended his right hand and waited for her to hobble forward and take it.

She did; there was no alternative.

His grip was firm, his expression grim.

"On my word, I'm no welsher."

"I'll hold you to it."

He released her then, flipped the cap on his Zippo. She watched the spark, flame, snap, and first drag. She watched him until his eyes snagged hers and he said,

"If I were you, Elizabeth, I'd be leggin' it already."

* * *

And so she did. As best she could, anyhow, glowering in pain and annoyance as Spike shouted "No cops!" after her.

A mere thirty seconds in and she'd already decided that the 'run' part of the run/hide option was going to result in a hard loss. Determination had not healed her; sheer will could not grant her speed. She knew she had to seek shelter, but there was nothing save forest surrounding her: dark and dense and no end in sight.

She trudged on blindly for a time, not sure of the distance she'd covered, the direction she was heading, or anything else except that at any moment he would be coming for her. She needed sanctuary.

* * *

She found a church.

The place was clearly abandoned. Only the long-dead still worshipped here, fellowshipping beneath weathered tombstones crumbling with age. She had wanted asylum, but a church? Appearing in an abrupt thinning of the woods, trailing its graveyard congregation―wasn't exactly a comfort, or a wise place to rest. If he happened upon it, Spike would search here, there was little doubt of that. _If. _She could only hope he found the forest as disorienting as she had, that the trees would turn him around and away from her. If they didn't…

She couldn't scoff at refuge now, even one as conspicuous as this. She was too weary: a horse ridden hard, foundering and foaming at the mouth, waiting for the gun. She could wait just as well in this dilapidated House of God, with its shaky foundation and windows like broken teeth.

Buffy approached the building cautiously. Its heavy double doors were ajar, one hanging at an awkward angle from rusted hinges. She slipped sideways through the gap, stepping carefully over shards of glass and miscellaneous debris to stand at the end of a long aisle flanked by pews.

She let several moments of indecision pass, taking small rapid sips of mildewed air and moving only her eyes around the large room. She wasn't the first person to venture here recently, though it seemed previous visitors had sought not shelter so much as a secluded place to party. They'd left the usual souvenirs: crushed cans, cigarette butts, plastic cups. The smell of spilt beer and vomit.

She placed a hand lightly on one of the hard-backed benches beside her, felt a touch of sorrow for such a forsaken place. She could hardly call herself a religious person, but it offended her all the same, this disrespect. Abandoned or not, wasn't a church still sacred?

But she knew. He'd been teaching her. Nothing was.

It was fitting: her broken body, her nearly-broken will, this broken church. She made her way up the aisle, instinctively checking the shadows as she went. Expecting to come across a sleeping bum, a drug-addled teen, Spike. She saw no one, heard nothing except the sound her sneakered feet made over garbage, like walking on packed snow. She was alone.

Unless you counted _Him_. A larger-than-life Jesus hanging above the altar on his cross. Sallow-cheeked and sunken-eyed, dying of exposure and the burden of humanity's sins. With his last breath, asking his Father to forgive creation. This was who Spike claimed to be, by halves. But Spike didn't forgive. His grandeur―at times so fucking convincing―was flawed here, as she stared fixedly into that sad, sad face.

She couldn't blame Spike for his beliefs. _So_ much blame lay at his feet already, but not for that. She couldn't blame the ill for his illness.

_For they know not what they do._

Here she stood, confronted with the truth, and knew what it was as she hadn't for too long.

He'd drawn her in from the first, his eyeteeth the hook she'd dangled from. Spun four years worth of fancies into a web fit to bind her. Plucked at her like a sweater's loose thread, unraveling everything she…just _everything_. And when at last she'd struggled free, shame-faced and shocked at herself, at what she'd almost believed…he'd found her. Found her, just to yank on that thread again.

And he would find her, always. And tonight. She knew that too. Hadn't the energy to deny it any longer. He would come for her, drag her back into his world where he was God, the Devil, and everything in between. Except this time she'd have to go quietly. No kicking and screaming, she'd already promised.

Suddenly, she was afraid. Afraid to lose, which would only mean losing herself, eventually. Afraid to leave this place where reality was so tangible she could cover herself in it, a favored blanket. Afraid of him, she thought, most of all.

There were small votive candles adorning the altar beneath Christ's bloody feet. The glasses that held them were cracked and dirty, their wax gone dingy with dust. She picked one up as reverently as anyone with actual faith. Kicked through the trash on the floor until she found a discarded Bic, spun the wheel until it admitted flame. It took a few tries before the charred wick would hold fire, but when it did she cupped the guttering flame protectively and crawled behind the alter. Wedged herself behind those candles, beneath the tortured Son of Man.

She huddled there, and she waited.

She sat for who knew how long, trying not to think. Letting her heart grow sluggish, then counting its beats. Matching them to the dull throbs of her aching muscles, which were still coiled in anticipation, and felt like they always would be. She sat, expecting every moment to be discovered. Certain he would soon storm in with a snide comment and patented smirk, wrecking her peace, claiming her life. But her heart ticked on, as did the second hand of her watch. And he wasn't there.

The sky started to brighten, at long-fucking-last. She stared out those shattered windows, watching what was left of the stained glass produce its colored light, signaling her victory. And he wasn't there.

She felt…it was over, really and truly, and…she didn't know _how_ to feel.

She didn't need to. She just needed to get up. Parse her feelings later, maybe never.

Stiffness had claimed her wholly as she'd sat her vigil. She crawled from behind the altar and stood awkwardly. Limping and still holding the candle, she placed it back on its perch, watching the little lick of fire. She wanted it to burn forever. She wanted―

"Finding religion, Elizabeth?"

And he was there.

She leaned in close to the flame, let it warm her face.

She said, "Almost."

Then blew.

* * *

He was front row center, arms spread across the back of his seat, the ankle of one leg resting on the knee of the other, jiggling his foot the way men do.

"I didn't hear you come in."

What a strange thing to say, as if that was what mattered.

"Had your mind on higher things."

She watched the smoke from the extinguished wick as it curled and writhed heavenward, an aborted prayer. "I did."

"Been here a fair few hours, I have. My legs started to cramp. But I wanted to give you your triumph, for awhile."

"Only because it would make yours sweeter." He was so full of shit sometimes.

"That it has, lamb." Spike unfurled himself from the bench, fluidly as a cat, minus the domesticity. "And you will be, won't you, Doctor? My little lamb, docile and cooperative. Just as you promised, now this shepherd's got you in his flock."

His voice soothed her, even as he advanced in that slow, predatory, nearly obscene way he had of walking. He dipped his head so she had to see him, his gaze calm as a caress. _Don't struggle_, it told her. _I'm offering a white flag. Won't you wave it?_ _Aren't you tired?_

So tired.

She turned her back on him, crossed her arms over her chest―protective gestures rather than defiant ones. Trying to keep him out just a little bit longer, trying to again grasp the certainty that he was only a sick man, nothing more. She was losing it. She had lost.

"Come now, little lamb." His whisper a shiver down her spine. "I won't hurt you."

She felt his breath on her neck, and then his forearm, pressing hard. She couldn't breathe. She _wouldn't_ fight. Her vision darkened at the edges.

Unconsciousness greeted her like an old friend.

* * *

_Ohio_

She'd officially come 'round sometime during the drive through Indiana. Spike had lain her across the backseat; she was spared the sight of him. Though he must have known when she'd roused, had called her name with a question mark attached to it. She didn't want to talk to him; there were no words. Instead she stared at the back of her eyelids, let the car lull her: its motion, the purring engine, his smooth shifting of gears. She slid into a doze and stayed there, even after Spike stopped the car, picked her up, put her to bed.

Bed was where she found herself now, fully clothed beneath motel sheets rough from frequent laundering. Alone again, as far as she could tell. Spike had likely gotten his own room, assuming she'd already done all the running she ever would. Assuming correctly. She felt used up, exhausted despite several hours rest, her body one large wound. She wanted to be still, so as not to rile it, but she needed to pee.

The bathroom seemed impossibly far away as Buffy pitched toward it, her movements jerky, unreliable. She relieved herself quickly―avoiding the mirror―and tottered back, falling gracelessly facedown on the too-firm mattress. She wanted clean clothes, maybe a shower if she could stand long enough. Saw her overnight bag on the floor, near enough to reach without moving. She grasped one handle and pulled; the top wasn't zippered. It gaped open…and this wasn't _her _bag.

Black t-shirts, black jeans, socks, no underwear. A strong box, no key.

And the tapes. All of them, nesting in his clothes. Their whole history together, here. She'd almost forgotten about them―had meant to―after shutting them away in her office all those months ago. Meticulously labeled, dated, and ordered, but not looked at. Never listened to. Why had he wanted these? A question she couldn't answer, along with all the others regarding Spike. Why he wanted _her_, where they were going, what horrible thing he would do once they got there. If she started pondering those questions, she'd never stop, and she still wouldn't know a goddamn thing sooner than he was ready to tell her.

He'd already told her all he wanted her to know, on these reels. She pawed through the bag, found her recorder, the cassette she wanted. Tried to put the tape in only to find she had it backward. Turned it around, got it in. She was nervous, inexplicably so. She already knew what she was about to hear; it wouldn't be so bad. It was only the beginning. Still, to go back down the rabbit hole…voluntarily, this time. She wasn't sure she was prepared for it, or to find her way back.

In the end, she pressed _Play_ with a shaking hand.

* * *

"_I'm going to be taping each of these sessions. For record-keeping purposes, as well as a means of tracking our progress. No one but myself will be listening to them. Is that alright with you?"_

"_Anything for posterity, luv."_

"_Good. Then we can get started. Tell me something about yourself."_

"_You first."_

"_You do understand the goal of these very _mandatory_ meetings?"_

"_Of course. But you'll come to find I rarely give without taking."_

"_Would you consider that a cruel practice?"_

"_Not always. It goes both ways, you see."_

"_Is that so?"_

"_Yeah. Even the corpses that landed me in this sodding place got something out of the deal. I took their lives, but I gave them purpose."_

"_Purpose?"_

"_What an honor it must have been, to die at my hands."_

_(Pause)_

"_Who are your parents, William?"_

_(laughs) "Nice transition. Five minutes in and 've already made you uncomfortable. But you dealt with it well."_

"_Your parents, William."_

"Spike. _Who are yours?"_

"_I'm not going to_―_"_

"_Then neither am I."_

_(sighs) "Hank and Joyce Summers."_

"_And where are they?"_

"_Early retirement. Palm Beach."_

"_How very cliché."_

"_Possibly. Answer the question."_

"_The question is irrelevant. You _know _who my father is."_

"_So you've said. But you are a man: blood, bones, DNA. And yours was no virgin birth."_

"_I had sperm-and-egg donors, not parents. Grew up in a London orphanage, I did."_

"_You never wondered about them? Looked for them?"_

"_Once. When I was 18. When I had to leave the home; I requested my file."_

"_What did you find out?"_

"_They were young: panicked when they found themselves in the family way. An' they were dead by the time I could piss standin' up."_

"_How did they die?"_

"_Murder/Suicide. You must know this already?"_

"_I do. I wanted to know if you did. Did you also know you and your father have the same diagnosis?"_

"_Yes."_

"_You are familiar with the term 'High-Functioning Paranoid Schizophrenic'?"_

"_They're words; I've used 'em myself from time to time."_

"_And you know you have this disorder?"_

"_I've been told as much."_

"_But do you believe it?"_

"_Only when 'm dosed up. Modern medicine has a way of covering up some facts and completely manufacturing others."_

"_You value honesty; it's important to you?"_

"_Extremely."_

"_Do you expect _me _to lie to you? Do you think I would?"_

_(pause)_

"_No."_

"_But I'm a psychiatrist, W_―_Spike. I deal with mental illness daily; I treat it. With therapy, with _medicine_. Am I part of this conspiracy?"_

"_No."_

"_Explain, please."_

"_I'm not saying mental illness doesn't exist. Just that I am not it."_

"_And your father? Was he?"_

"_Why?"_

"_It's just a little curious, you two sharing a pathology: what you did to be imprisoned here, what he did to your mother, to himself…"_

"_I am nothing like him."_

"_I 'm not trying to offend you; I'm simply suggesting_―_"_

"_And _I _suggest you change the subject. Now. Something pleasant."_

_(pause)_

"_What did you do for a living? What was your gift? Before?"_

"_Was a writer."_

"_Anything I'd know?"_

"_Hardly. Just bullshit back in London. Magazines and the like. But I've done enough sharing for the moment. Your turn."_

"_This isn't about me, Spike. This is for your benefit."_

"_And this information will be for my benefit as well."_

_(Pause)_

"_What do you want to know?"_

"_Why do you do this? Sweet thing like you, mucking yourself up wading through the criminal mind."_

_(Pause)_

"_That is really none of your business."_

"_I'm making it mine, or I'll have no more head-shrinking,"_

"_You don't have a choice, there."_

_(laughs) "They can force me to come here. They can't force me to talk. But you, you couldn't stand my silence, you want in so badly. You have to earn the invite, pet."_

_(Pause)_

"_My cousin…she was smothered to death. In a hospital, of all places. The man who did it, this sadistic intern, got off. Pled mental duress, got sent to a psych facility that may as well have been Club Med. Got 'cured'; he was a free man in a handful of years. All because a so-called 'expert witness' backed up his story. It was such a sham, but the jury didn't want to see the truth. That a person could do such a thing, be such a monster. They needed an excuse, but it wasn't really there. I wanted to make it harder for the fakes to all but walk under the guise of temporary insanity."_

"_And so you do."_

_(pause)_

"_I expected you to try that particular tack. It may have worked, given your history. But you didn't even let it go to trial."_

"_There you go again, turning things back around. Quite good at that, you are. I don't see the harm in knowing a bit about someone I'm to be spending so much time with, mandatory or otherwise."_

"_I prefer to keep my objectivity. It's simple professionalism."_

"_Uh-huh. Has nothing to do with you not wanting a killer knowing your particulars."_

_(pause)_

"_Why didn't you want a trial? Why plead guilty?"_

"_Did what I did to those six, and make no excuses for it. Denial implies shame. I had none. "_

"_Lifelong imprisonment without the possibility of parole is a punishment. Why accept that, if you feel you've done nothing wrong?"_

"_This is no punishment, only Man's idea of it. Doesn't harm me to be here. I don't answer to men."_

"_Who do you answer to? God?"_

"_Yes, but not only. The other one, too."_

"_That must be difficult for you."_

"_Sometimes. Others, it's easy enough."_

"_How so?"_

"_Creation, Destruction. They're more similar than you might think. Anyway, it's not forever. One day, the choice will be mine alone."_

"_What does that mean?"_

_(Pause)_

"_Spike?"_

"_Time's up, Doctor. Another day, perhaps."_

* * *

There was no other day, not where that particular piece of information was concerned. He'd moved it back inside himself, where it resided still, probably in the same unreachable recess Cecily occupied. Reminded of it now, Buffy wasn't quite sure she even _wanted _to know, except in that nagging, obscure way she wanted to know everything about him.

_You couldn't stand my silence, you want in so badly. _

And what work it was, getting in. He'd been infuriating, relentless: making her play show-and-tell. Demanding large chunks of her soul before baring even an inch of his own. She'd stopped trying to dissuade him after a time, resigning herself to the incessant cat-and-mouse. Because he _must_ talk. She'd so craved his words―how they sickened and excited her. She blushed to think of it, and how little she'd changed.

She shoved the tapes away, along with their memories. Closed his bag in disgust, only to open it again and remove the strong box, heavy with whatever else he was trying to hide. She took it over to the pitiful kitchenette, found a steak knife. It jammed in the lock, broke off when she twisted, but the box was cheaply made, and gave.

Walking to the bed, Buffy held the box away from her body like a live grenade. She sat cross-legged on the rumpled sheets and settled Spike's secrets in her lap, shooting a guilty glance toward the door, imagining him bursting in at this pivotal moment, raging at her audacity. The knob didn't turn.

She took a breath, lifted the lid, and felt like Pandora must have, unleashing horrors onto the world.


End file.
